DR2: The Cross of Changes, book I
by Nick Midian
Summary: The Sequel and Prequel to 'Dark Reflection' begins. Two timelines. Two stories. One Epic adventure.
1. Part 1 of 5

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 1 of 5   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal – ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book I:  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers  
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD  
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer  
Brian Bosworth as Cecil  
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD  
  
and  
  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
~~~~~~  
  
BOOK I: The Rules of the Game  
  
"The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering."  
-- Bruce Lee  
  
~~~~~~  
  
PROLOGUE: Something wicked this way comes  
Sunnydale, California. December 1, 2002. 9:58 p.m.  
  
I'm running in the rain  
I'm caught in a late night play  
It's all; it's everything  
I'm soaking through the skin  
  
Twilight... darkened day  
Twilight... lost my way  
Twilight... night and day  
Twilight... can't find my way  
  
"Twilight", U2  
  
  
If you had any choice about the way you died, what sort of death would it be?  
  
Would you prefer to die in your sleep, departing from this world to the next   
embraced in the arms of a winged angel?  
  
Or, would you prefer instead to go out in a blaze of glory, immolating yourself   
in the most spectacular explosion of rage and fury that you could engineer?  
  
What sort of death would it be?  
  
As his cruiser slowly patrolled the dark and empty streets of Sunnydale, Officer   
Mark Hastings couldn't help but think that he would choose a nice and quiet   
death, in the bed of his family home. And much better if it came on a day very,   
very far in the future.  
  
Hastings let out a bored sigh and massaged the back of his neck, feeling the   
knots that had formed in his tired muscles and the tension stored in his tendons   
and vertebrae. He looked at the glowing green lights of the clock on the   
dashboard of his Crown Victoria police car, and groaned as he thought of the two   
hours that still remained until the end of his seemingly-endless shift.  
  
He stifled a yawn with his fist and craned his neck, making his bones pop as he   
tried to find a more comfortable position in his seat.  
  
As he drove at less than 15 mph, he took a long look at his surroundings –   
thankful not for the first time that evening, that the interior of the car was a   
warm and quite comfortable refuge from the cold of the night.  
  
Winter had come to southern California with a vengeance this year. There had   
been an almost pleasant first half of November – with warm, calm nights and days   
that fit more into one's notion of the last days of summer.  
  
But the second half had begun with a drastic descent of temperature, accompanied   
by rain and clouded, dark-gray skies that promised more days of cold and water.  
  
He hoped he wouldn't have to get out of the car during the rest of his shift,   
not liking at all the look of the dark, wet and empty streets of this small   
suburban town near Los Angeles.  
  
=All in all though, Sunnydale isn't such a bad place to live,= he thought.  
  
Sure, it had one of the highest death and missing persons rates in the whole   
nation, almost to the point of being ridiculously high; and there was that   
strange sensation throughout the whole town, like a dark cape that covered it   
and that everybody seemed to ignore.  
  
But, all in all, it was a nice place to live. The businesses kept growing and   
the weather was good – well, most of the time.  
  
The skies were lit up for a second, with the unexpected blue flash of lightning;   
a peal of thunder crashed above the police car, making the police officer jump   
in surprise and mutter a curse under his breath.  
  
As if God had opened the dams of Heaven, a thick curtain of water began to fall   
over Sunnydale, the raindrops hitting the roof and hood of the car like ice   
needles.  
  
Hastings switched on the wipers, which barely allowed him to see a little more   
than ten meters ahead, and rubbed the inside of the windshield, trying to erase   
the steam from his window.  
  
He was nearing the corner of Heighboro and Fourth when he had to stop the car in   
front of the red light at the intersection, his fingers tapping over the   
steering wheel while he waited for the green light, so he could restart his   
patrol.  
  
That was when the blinking lights got his attention, the orange signal coming   
and going out of the corner of his eye. The police officer leaned over the   
passenger's seat and rolled down the steamy windowpane, trying to get a better   
and closer look at the origin of the light.  
  
He didn't need to use all of his deductive capacities, to understand that it was   
the rear turn signals of a crashed vehicle. Hastings switched on the police   
car's powerful search lamp, and focused its bright ray on the crashed car.  
  
The ray of light penetrated the darkness like a knife, and allowed the police   
officer to take a good look at its target.  
  
He hadn't seen it before, because the corner of the nearest building had covered   
it. It was a brand-new looking aquamarine Corvette, that stank of Rich Boy and   
money.   
  
Drunk Rich Boy, to be exact. Because the car's flat nose was carefully   
enveloping a street lamp, a white cloud of steam coming from under the twisted   
hood. Steam that was valiantly fighting with the falling water only to be   
defeated by it, like a castle of sand under the crashing waves of the ocean.  
  
Hastings sighed in resignation, and took up the microphone of the police car's   
radio. "Central? This is Adam-14," he called, pushing the speak-button of the   
radio.  
  
"Central Dispatch," said the distorted feminine voice of the cop in charge of   
the police radio central. "What do you need, Adam-14?"  
  
"I've got a Twelve-Thirty-four between Heighboro and Fourth, and we may need   
paramedics here," he said, taking his waterproof cap and a potent flashlight.  
  
"Ten-four, Adam-14, do you need any back-up?"  
  
"Negative, just send the damn ambulance, OK?" he said with more harshness than   
what he'd intended.  
  
"Ten-four, Adam-14," repeated the voice, not showing if it was annoyed by the   
lack of good manners in the police officer. "Over and out."  
  
With a grunt, Hastings placed the microphone on its cradle and opened his door,   
quickly putting on his cap and switching on the flashlight.  
  
As quickly as his slightly over-weight body allowed him, the police officer ran   
to the crashed sports car, his feet splashing in the cold pools of rain water   
and the light of his flashlight dancing on the thick curtain that quickly   
drenched him to the bone.  
  
"Damn drunk kids," he cursed, directing the ray of the flashlight to the   
interior of the car while he shrugged and closed his jacket, trying to keep some   
of the warmth of his cruiser's interior.  
  
"Hey!" he called, "is anybody in there?"  
  
The radio of the car was switched on, tuned into an Eighties station, and an   
old, soft song was coming from the car's speakers, barely audible over the sound   
of the storm and the falling rain.  
  
"Why, lover? Why?"  
  
With a frown, he leaned close to the rolled-down window of the driver's side,   
only to discover that the crashed Corvette was completely empty.   
  
"What the hell?" he muttered, turning around to check the surroundings of the   
car.  
  
Over the repeating sounds of the crashing raindrops he could hear the low rumble   
of the car's engine, still alive. He didn't find any trace of the car's owner,   
or anybody else for that matter, and Hastings couldn't help but feel really   
puzzled.  
  
=Who in his right mind would abandon a $50,000 car in such a storm?= He figured   
that the driver, maybe confused and probably drunk as a skunk, had stepped out   
of the car and lost himself in one of the dark alleys that surrounded the zone,   
not one of the better ones of the town.   
  
He would probably be wounded, and his life could be at stake. =Stupid son of a   
bitch,= he thought.  
  
"Why, lover? Why?"  
  
While he walked back to the crashed car with the intention of taking a closer   
look at the interior, and maybe find some clues to the owner's identity, he took   
his portable radio and switched it on.  
  
"Central? This is Adam-14 again," he said, almost with boredom and a good dose   
of annoyance. He opened the driver's door, and introduced his water-dripping   
head inside the dry interior of the car.  
  
And his mouth went completely dry.  
  
"Why do flowers die?"  
  
"Adam-14, the requested paramedics are on their way," announced the voice on the   
radio, not receiving any answer from the police officer. "Adam-14?"  
  
Hastings put the radio to his mouth and tried to find the words to explain what   
was in front of his eyes, but he only succeeded in opening and closing his mouth   
like a fish out of the water.  
  
"Wait a moment," he managed to croak to the radio.  
  
The interior of the Corvette reeked with the unmistakable odor of spilled blood,   
that covered the leather-covered bucket seats and dashboard.  
  
Hastings barely controlled his dry-heaves as the pungent odor wormed its way   
through his nose and filled his lungs with an acid, puncturing ache. One that   
matched the one of his mouth when the bile rose from his stomach, burning his   
esophagus and filling his mouth.  
  
"Oh, God," he sputtered, spitting the awful-tasting saliva to the wet pavement.  
  
"Why, lover? Why?"  
  
The steering wheel and every disposable surface of the car's interior was   
covered and matted with dried blood, its sticky look a clear sign that the vital   
red liquid had been there for something more than just a few moments.  
  
It was as if somebody had sacrificed a lamb there – as if somebody had   
undertaken an unholy baptism of death.  
  
The last thing he saw after he had to turn away to avoid spilling the contents   
of his stomach on the floor was a perfect, clearly defined, red fingerprint on   
the surface of the rear-view mirror.  
  
Hastings walked away from the crashed car, supporting his whole frame on his   
weakened knees and took long, cleansing breaths.  
  
For the first time that evening he thanked the cold, wet air of the night, that   
cooled his lungs and refreshed his mouth.  
  
The police officer raised his face to the thundering sky and let the falling   
rain wash his flustered face, filling his mouth and erasing the taste of the   
acidic saliva from his mouth.  
  
"Why do flowers die?"  
  
When he lowered his gaze, wiping the water from his eyes with his shaking hand,   
he found himself in front of the last thing he expected to find in a storm   
during a dark winter night.  
  
The young woman wasn't directly looking at him, she seemed more interested in   
his shoes. Her hands were hanging limp at each side of her body, her   
looking-down face covered by her wet dark-brown hair as the rain fell down over   
her, the cold water running down her bare arms and long, smooth legs like the   
caress of a lover.  
  
Hastings gulped down with surprise and snapped to attention, trying to regain   
some authority.   
  
"Miss?" he called to the young stranger. "Are you alright, Miss?"  
  
She just shook her head, but said nothing. The police officer began to feel   
really confused by the whole surreality of the scene.  
  
=Who is this woman?= he thought. She looked unharmed, but, judging by her   
behavior, she could have some kind of internal wound or maybe a concussion.  
  
Why else would she be standing there, almost naked in the middle of   
thunderstorm? Because that little piece of spandex that she used to cover the   
most intimate parts of her anatomy couldn't be called a dress.  
  
It was too short, too sexy, too bold... it was simply 'too'.  
  
"Is that car yours?" he asked her, beginning to cross the space that separated   
them. She shook her head in denial once more, but this time Hastings noticed her   
lips moving slowly in a silent whisper.  
  
"What?" he asked, taking off his jacket and leaning into her.  
  
"I'm hungry..." she whispered with a rough voice, as if she had a pained throat.   
The policeman covered the girl's bare shoulders with his jacket and tried to   
offer her a comforting smile, with little success.  
  
"Come with me, Miss," he said, guiding her to the police car. "It's warm and dry   
in there. And don't worry, we'll get you something warm to eat later." His hands   
rubbed against one of her bare, arms and noticed how cold she was.  
  
=Gotta be shock,= he thought.  
  
She didn't look like the kind of girl with enough money to drive such an   
expensive car like that Corvette, but she could be the girlfriend of the driver.   
She was probably scared and confused, something that wasn't unusual in   
Sunnydale.  
  
"I'm so hungry," she repeated, almost in a trance-like state. "So hungry..."  
  
Hastings opened the rear door of the car and stood aside, leaving space for her   
to climb into the car's interior.  
  
She sat in the back seat and he gently removed her hair from her face, then she   
looked directly at his face and he fell captivated by her lost brown eyes.   
  
"I don't know what's happening to me these days," she told him. "It's as if   
nothing can satisfy me. I've already eaten today, but it's not enough. It's   
never enough."  
  
He nodded, not really understanding her but offered the girl a reassuring look.   
"Don't worry, Miss, we'll take you to the hospital soon and the doctors will   
help you."  
  
She shook her head. "No, I haven't much time. You have to help me..."  
  
"Me?" he squeaked, feeling with surprise how her nimble fingers began to crawl   
over his chest almost with a leisurely pace. "Wha-what are you doing?"  
  
"You have to help me, officer..." she whispered raggedly. "You're so full of it   
I can taste it on my lips, on my tongue... give it to me, please. I need it."  
  
The first words that crossed Hastings' mind were 'crazy bitch', and he absently   
tried to back away from her; but the young woman's fingers closed over the chest   
of his uniform shirt, holding him back.  
  
"Let me go-mmmpphh," his voice was cut into a muffled sigh when she yanked at   
his shirt, bringing his lips to hers and giving him a long, rough and   
open-mouthed kiss.  
  
It wasn't an unpleasant sensation – or it didn't feel like one, until the moment   
her fingers began to painfully dig in his scalp, applying so much pressure that   
it become unbearable in a very few moments.  
  
It was as if she was trying to suck out his bowels through his throat.  
  
"Get off me!" he shouted, when he finally managed to push her away enough to   
take a long breath. "Don't know what your problem is, but you need a friggin'   
shrin-"  
  
His mouth went suddenly dry, and his voice turned into a high-pitched warble   
when a wave of fear washed over him, closing his throat and making him feel   
suddenly light-headed.  
  
Right in front of his eyes, the girl's face began to change, morphing as if the   
flesh, bones and cartilage were melting and rearranging of their own will.  
  
Ridges appeared over the nose, brow and cheeks, forming hard edges and planes   
where everything had been a smooth curve before. The eyebrows disappeared, and   
her dark brown eyes turned blood-red and gold.  
  
She smiled, and he could see her fangs. Long, white as snow and pointed like   
little daggers.  
  
Breath came out of the police officer's lungs in a weak yelp, the kind that   
would be expected from the spoiled dog of a little old lady, forming just one   
word. "No."  
  
Still grabbing him by the chest of his shirt, she sank into the crook of his   
neck; her powerful jaws locking around his carotid, as her fangs ripped the   
tender skin of the man's throat. She made a spray of dark, thick blood spurt out   
like a spring-fountain, coating his uniform and the girl's face and mouth.  
  
Officer Matt Hastings began to kick and punch her with all the strength of his   
large body, against which the girl's one looked almost ridiculously small.   
Still, like a fly trying to get free from a spider's grasp, it was all for   
nothing.  
  
He simply couldn't believe what was happening to him. Even at that very moment,   
with that... monster attached to his neck, he couldn't accept the fact that he   
was about to die at the hands of a vampire. It was just too surreal.  
  
As the beautiful dark-haired vampire drank from the open wound, taking long,   
gluttonous gulps, Hastings tried to scream; but he found that he simply couldn't   
order his body to take air into his lungs, and his mind began to feel numb and   
fogged by the lack of oxygen.  
  
So, the only sounds that filled the interior of the police car were the noisy,   
almost obscene gulps of the vampire, draining his body of the precious vital   
fluid. That plus the raindrops falling over the roof and his punches and kicks,   
which were getting weaker and weaker with every passing second until, finally,   
even that sound died.  
  
She broke away from him, gently letting his lifeless body rest on the rear seat   
of the cruiser, tilting her head to one side as she observed with a smile on her   
lips how the final traces of life disappeared from his eyes, leaving them   
clouded, lost and dead.  
  
Then, with a smile that was beautiful in its cold perfection, she leaned over   
him, taking his pale face in her hands and sweetly kissing him on his cheek,   
where she left the blood-red print of her generous lips.  
  
"Thank you so very much for your gift, sweetie," she whispered, nuzzling his jaw   
and neck with her nose, and kissing him once more before finally stepping back   
and getting out of the car.  
  
The rain fell on her again, but her undead body didn't feel the cold of the   
water, only the piercing, almost erotic sensation of the raindrops on her bare   
skin. She raised her game face to the dark sky and began to dance away from the   
accident site, spinning around with her slender arms outspread.  
  
Letting the rain wash away the blood that matted the marble skin of her face and   
chin.  
  
"It's so good to be back," she whispered to the darkness, letting out a   
near-hysterical giggle. "Oh, B, if you could see me right now..."  
  
Far away, the piercing wail of the ambulance's siren began to be heard and the   
rain slowed its pace, falling slower and slower until it stopped completely. The   
vampire ended her dance beside the lamplight, her attention seemingly captivated   
by a pool of dirty water at her feet.  
  
She looked at the reflecting surface of the pool and, tilting her head again to   
one side, waved her hand in front of her face.  
  
Nothing. There was nothing there. No reflection of her, as if she wasn't there,   
as if she wasn't real.  
  
With a roar of rage, the female vampire smashed the surface of the pool with her   
pump-wearing foot, making it explode into a rain of pearl-like drops. The siren   
came closer, too close.  
  
She began to walk away, her heels clicking on the hard pavement. Minutes later,   
when the paramedics arrived, there was no trace of her ever being there.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The mansion was perched at the top of the cliffs like a vulture preying on a   
rotten corpse, waiting for its turn to begin feasting. Tens of meters beneath   
the tall, dark gray walls of the building and the knife-edge cliffs, the waves   
of an angry sea crashed against the rocks, exploding into white foam and   
retreating back into the embrace of Mother Ocean.  
  
The building itself was the epitome of a haunted house, its bulky body a   
nightmare born from the mind of a mad architect with walls of dark gray concrete   
that seemed like the rough skin of a basilisk.  
  
Tall and narrow windows, like eyes boring into the darkness of the night. And   
gargoyles on the roof, beasts with twisted bodies of stone and bronze that bared   
their pointed teeth in menacing snarls, claiming their territory and silently   
fighting amongst themselves for dominance.  
  
A tall fence of rock and long, rusty spears surrounded the mansion, but nobody   
could tell if it was there to protect the building and those who lived inside it   
– or to protect those who had been bold enough, to dare to walk the distance   
from the nearby town to that arid, desert place, from what had made its home   
there.  
  
Inside the massive walls of the mansion, darkness reigned. Even though all the   
objects stored in every large room and decorating every endless hallway had the   
unmistakable sign of money carved on them, everything was cold, empty, dead.  
  
A thick layer of dust covered everything – the elegant 17th century furniture of   
the ballroom, the ancient Chinese urns along the main hallway, the valuable   
Rembrandts that hung in the library.  
  
It was as if they'd simply been forgotten by the rest of the human race, and the   
passage of time itself.  
  
The emptiness of the building was almost audible, like a chilling, dead finger   
running down one's spine. But, if someone dared to walk its lonely hallways or   
stay, even for a second, inside anyone of the spacious rooms, he would feel that   
unsettling sensation of having invisible eyes settled on his figure.  
  
As if inside every shadow, in every corner, behind every piece of furniture a   
menacing danger would be hidden, waiting to jump on one's back. As if the blind   
eyes of every statue were actually seeing you, boring into your body.  
  
Everything was cold; the open windows of the west side, which faced the naked   
cliffs, let the freezing night wind be blown into the darkened rooms, making the   
yellowed curtains flutter like ghosts, worn-out remembrances of the past.  
  
In that mausoleum, the old man in the wheelchair looked like just another museum   
piece amongst all those musty works of art, almost a living statue carved in   
yellowed marble.  
  
He was 101 years old, but to a casual observer he could have been a thousand; so   
fragile was his little crippled body, worn by the inclement pass of time and the   
fury of the elements.  
  
His skin was nothing more than a tensed vellum over his protruding bones, so   
thin that it was almost transparent, crossed by the thin blue web of his veins.   
His hair, once as blonde as gold and later snow-white, was now a dirty and sick   
ivory-yellow.  
  
His limbs, so thin, so weak that they seemed the branches of a dead tree, were   
almost immobile, barely rocking in front of the huge fireplace, its crackling,   
dancing flames the only source of heat and light in the whole building.  
  
His piercing blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence and untamable will, were the   
only feature that looked alive on his otherwise tired and crumpled body.  
  
His fingers, like curved and twisted claws, moved slowly over the chess figure   
that he held in his trembling hands, carefully running over every smooth curve,   
deep crack and shady nook as if he were trying to memorize them.  
  
It was carved in pure black ebony, faithfully showing every feature of the young   
woman in whose shape it was sculpted, from her short, skin-tight dress wrapping   
her voluptuous body to her high stilettos at the end of her long and smooth   
legs, her silky mane falling over her bare shoulders and her generous lips.  
  
With a smile that was almost obscene, the old man let his fingertips run over   
each one of the figure's features. He allowed his mind the forbidden pleasure of   
remembering how it was to touch a real woman's soft skin, to drown in her scent   
and taste her as his fingertips caressed the small figure's proud breasts and   
shapely behind.  
  
A long time ago, there hadn't been any sane woman that had refused his favors;   
but now that he was quickly reaching the last moments of his life, all that   
remained to him was the memories of his distant youth.  
  
With a sigh of resignation, the old man put the figure on the Black Queen's   
square of the chessboard. The chessboard that, supported by an elaborate black   
marble pedestal, was right in front of him.  
  
He tried not to depress himself with the dark thought that always came, when he   
remembered his wasted young years.  
  
Soon, he would have a new chance. To live, to conquer, to reign.  
  
"Are you there, Mr. Smith?" he asked, with a voice that sounded like the action   
of a pair of rotten bellows.  
  
When the other man stepped into the circle of light provided by the fireplace,   
it looked like he had just materialized from the shadows, as if they had merged   
together, giving form and life to him.  
  
As he soundlessly walked beside the old man's wheelchair with a pace that was   
like one of a panther, his powerful muscles moved under his elegant black suit   
and collarless white shirt, bulging like the pistons of a perfectly adjusted   
machine.  
  
He was very tall, more than seven feet high – so tall in fact, that the crippled   
figure beside him looked almost ridiculous at his side.  
  
He was also remarkably handsome in a dark way, with the severe and calm features   
of an African prince; thick lips surrounded by a neatly cut mustache and goatee,   
and piercing black eyes that resembled the ones of a shark.  
  
Cold and emotionless, but extremely dangerous.  
  
He waited beside the old man, with his hands big enough to crush a man's head   
between his fingers patiently crossed in front of him. His egg-shaped and   
perfectly shaved head was slightly tilted to one side, as if he was carefully   
listening to a sound that only he was able to hear.  
  
In the flickering light of the flames, his dark skin had the exact color of   
chocolate. He said nothing, waiting for the old man to speak first.  
  
This time the crippled old man took the White Queen in his hands, his lips   
twisted into a lustful grimace. This figure had also the shape of a young woman,   
barely more than a girl; but, contrary to the dark expression and attitude of   
her black counterpart, its pure white marble face was smiling with a face that   
seemed to radiate energy and warmth.  
  
She wore a blouse that could be silk and tight pants with boots, and her hair   
was gathered in a tight ponytail. One that, even when it was as white as the   
rest of the figure, seemed to shine with a golden glow.  
  
"How is everything going?" the old man asked, as his fingers began to run once   
more over each feature of the small figure.  
  
When the tall man called Mr. Smith spoke, the whole room seemed to shake under   
the weight of his deep, vibrating voice.  
  
"The game is about to begin," he said without showing any emotion at all, "the   
players are already coming to town. Your... Black Queen is already here."  
  
"Excellent, excellent..." He let his voice trail off as he watched the effect of   
the dancing flames over the smooth surface of the figure. "So goddamned   
beautiful... such a shame, such a waste..."  
  
He carefully put the figure in its place. "I get the feeling that there's   
something you'd like to say, Mr. Smith."  
  
The black man let his brows merge together in a frown, that disappeared as   
quickly as it had formed. He licked his thick lips with a flick of his tongue,   
before speaking.  
  
"Are you sure that you want to do this? I'm afraid that you are not fully   
conscious of the forces you're about to unleash," he said.  
  
In spite of his obvious old age, the man's head snapped up with the speed of a   
lightning bolt, his clear blue eyes piercing Mr. Smith's face like laser beams   
with rage and anger. "That's easy for somebody like you to say, but my time is   
running out and I'm not going to..."  
  
His voice turned into a sick, uncontrollable cough, as his lungs couldn't   
support the effort of his angry tirade. The tall dark man waited patiently,   
until he was able to regain some resemblance of control over his speaking and   
breathing.  
  
"I don't pay you so generously to know your opinions," he finished.   
  
Mr. Smith just raised one eyebrow coldly. "I was just pointing out the fact that   
you may be running too many risks, in order to obtain something for which   
success could be considered highly... dubious."  
  
The old man shook his head in denial and wheeled his chair around, turning his   
back on the man and facing the chess board once more. Very carefully, he took   
another one of the figures.  
  
"Everything is under control," he whispered more to himself than his companion.   
"I've studied them, I know their strengths and weaknesses – and I know where to   
strike to obtain victory."  
  
"Nobody knows everything," Mr. Smith pointed out.  
  
The old man snorted, almost amused. "I also know that, but even the most   
difficult enigma has a solution, even the bravest hero has his weak point." He   
left the figure on the center of the board, and smiled slowly. "Even this one."  
  
It was a young man, barely more than a boy, that wore a long coat covering his   
muscular frame and wide shoulders.  
  
He had longish hair, and a crooked smile on his lips that made his handsome   
features look even younger, almost boyish. But his eyes were deep, sad... one   
could say ageless.   
  
It was the White Queen's Knight.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Part 2 of 5

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 2 of 5   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book I:  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers  
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD  
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer  
Brian Bosworth as Cecil  
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD  
  
and  
  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: Death from above (the boys are back in town)  
Los Angeles, California. December 1, 2002. 11:37 p.m.  
  
Dead I am the one, exterminating son  
Slipping through the trees, strangling the breeze  
Dead I am the sky, watching angels cry  
As they slowly turn, conquering the worm  
Dead I am the life, dig into the skin   
Knuckle crack the bone, 21 to win  
Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry  
Devil on your back, I can never die  
  
"Dragula", Rob Zombie  
  
  
They called it the City of Light; but that night, after the rain, Los Angeles   
was a depressing place, full of dark alleys and empty streets that reeked of wet   
trash and lost souls. A place where, by definition, you wouldn't want to find   
yourself alone and helpless.  
  
That night, as the witching hour came closer and closer, a strange feeling was   
covering the city like a blanket of darkness. It was something indefinable, just   
a whisper in the collective consciousness of the citizenship; but it was telling   
them to take refuge from the cold, hostile forces that roamed streets that no   
sane person would ever walk.  
  
That night, the hookers and the dealers had disappeared from the neon-filled   
avenues of Hollywood. The rich people up in Beverly Hills and down in Santa   
Monica were securely guarded inside their mansions, and even the gangs in South   
Central and Compton had decided to take a vacation.  
  
That night, the Lakers would not play at Inglewood, Spaggo's would not accept   
any reservations, and the Beverly Plaza suites would not witness any illicit   
affair by some famous movie star.  
  
That night, Los Angeles was a dead city whose dark, lonely and wet streets were   
only walked by fools and the enlightened.  
  
It was going to be a night of miracles and horrors. It was going to be the end   
of an old age, and the beginning of a new one.  
  
The still-unfinished twin structures of the Kobayashi Towers rose fifty floors   
from the ground, reigning over the city from their vantage point in the business   
center. Their steel and glass bodies were like a pair of knives, defiantly   
trying to stab the heavens, claiming a victory of human beings' intellect over   
the forces of nature.  
  
They were screaming that maybe God had put us on Earth, but no one had helped us   
to reach this place, the one reserved for the rulers of the world.  
  
It was ironic that this exact spot of civilization, had been chosen to witness   
the moment that was going to mean the end of the world, as human beings knew it.  
  
The only difference between the two, almost identical, towers was the fact that   
Kobayashi-1 had a helipad on its roof while its twin, Kobayashi-2, housed the   
big, metallic structure of a worldwide communications antennae.  
  
The fact was that, painted in the usual red-white stripe pattern, they looked   
too much like a giant lollipop to Myriam Archer's eyes, as she watched it from   
across the street.  
  
She supposed it was an unavoidable evil, as the towers were going to be the new   
headquarters of one of the most powerful mass-media consortiums in the world.   
But that didn't diminish the fact that it was aesthetically offensive.  
  
It was a cold night and, at fifty floors up, the wind was blowing full force,   
worming its way under the black and heavy robe she wore, chilling her to the   
bone.  
  
She clenched her teeth to avoid them chattering and rubbed her slender hands   
together, trying to warm them a little before they went completely numb.  
  
She had been waiting for this night from the moment she'd been born, when her   
parents had found the mark on her body that identified her as the Chosen One. A   
little birth-mark on her wrist, with the shape of a five-pointed star that   
signaled her coming as the one that one day would give shelter to their dark   
mistress inside her.  
  
Now twenty-five years of waiting, of preparations and studies were going to end   
in less than half an hour, exactly at midnight. At that moment, the planets and   
the stars would be in their correct positions, the ceremony would take place,   
and the innocent blood would be spilled and drunk.  
  
And Ezrain the unholy would worm its way from the depths of Hell, into the   
wonderful, astonishing world of the 21st century.  
  
She knew that once the unholy goddess took control of her body, there would be   
no place for her vital essence in it and she would die – but that wasn't   
something that bothered her.  
  
It was her fate to do this, and she had been taught to eagerly expect it with   
joy. She had to come to change the world, and that was all that mattered.  
  
"Mistress?" called a voice behind her, making her turn around to face the   
acolyte.  
  
He was tall and bulky, and similarly dressed in a black robe. From his neck,   
hung the golden symbol of Ezrain.  
  
With his entire appearance almost taken from an old horror movie starring Peter   
Cushing and Vincent Price, the Uzi submachine-gun that he carried in his hands   
seemed completely out of place.  
  
"What do you want, Cecil?" she asked, making an effort to remember the name of   
the acolyte.  
  
Not daring to look straight into the eyes of the soon-to-be goddess, the tall   
man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, almost with shy nervousness.  
  
"The building is now finally under control," he informed her, "all the security   
guards have been captured and eliminated. Communications have been cut, and all   
the entrances are under surveillance."  
  
She nodded, and let a satisfied smile cross her lips. She wasn't especially   
beautiful or anything, but the man in front of her seemed about to blush, and   
took shyly took his eyes away from her face.  
  
"Well done, Cecil, your actions will be rewarded. How are the preparations for   
the ceremony going?" she asked, as they began to walk away from the edge of the   
roof to the center of the helipad, where a group of similarly black-robed men   
were arranging the equipment for the upcoming ceremony.  
  
They had placed a dark mahogany table in the center, and were drawing a perfect   
circle with torches around it. The mere fact that the torches remained lit under   
the force of the wind, reeked of black magic.  
  
"Everything is ready for the moment, my Mistress," Cecil said, his long legs   
barely keeping up with the woman's quick steps. "The offerings are ready and..."  
  
A movement caught his eye, and he nodded towards the roof-access door with his   
head. "That's where they're bringing the first one now."  
  
Myriam followed the man's signal and looked as two acolytes brought a scared,   
screaming-and-kicking child to the table and tied him to it with tight leather   
bonds. The woman walked to him and looked at the blue, puffy eyes of the   
nine-year-old boy.  
  
She ruffled his spiked sandy hair, and smiled at him in complete sincerity.  
  
"Lemme go," he asked with sobbing voice. "I wanna go home to my mommy!"   
  
She smiled warmly once more, and softly shook her head. "Don't worry, my dear,"   
he whispered to him. "You're soon going to go to a better place." She kissed his   
forehead. "And don't worry about your mother, she'll also be there soon.   
Everybody will be there soon."  
  
A burst of thunder crashed in the dark, starless skies and a lightning bolt   
stabbed the still air of the night, illuminating everything with a blue glow.  
  
"The storm is coming back," Cecil whispered, looking at the sky with a frown.   
  
Myriam raised her head, and let out a cruel, dry laugh. "It is coming, indeed.   
And who is going to stop it?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Well, that is so not going to be me..." the young blonde woman observed, as she   
and her slightly taller friend crossed the distance that separated their car   
from the entrance of the night-club, both of them trying to get to the warm   
interior of the local establishment as quickly as possible.  
  
"Oh, come on Buffy!" protested her friend, taking off her coat and carefully   
rearranging her long mane of dark hair when they were finally inside. "You're my   
last chance!"  
  
The vampire Slayer known as Buffy Summers, looked at the other woman with a   
small frown on her beautiful face. "I've already told you, Cordy, no. You can   
ask me anything else in the whole world. Kill vampires?" she counted, raising a   
finger.  
  
"Sure, that's my job. Take care of your pet rock? That's what friends are for.   
But posing nude? No thanks, my embarrassment quota is like already full up for   
this year!"  
  
As the two young women made their way through the grooving mass of dancing   
people, noticing not without surprise how many people had gathered there even on   
such a cold and wet night, they finally spotted their usual table empty in one   
of the more secluded corners of the club.  
  
They quickly sat down and Buffy made a gesture to Chuck, the waiter, knowing   
that he would have their usual beverages ready in a few moments.   
  
The truth was that they spent so much time there, there were always two tables   
reserved for them – as if there was some kind of sign over them, reading 'For   
the Scooby Gang's exclusive use'.  
  
One of these days, Chuck was going to start making them pay rent.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw the pout on Cordelia's face and sighed,   
knowing that the discussion was far from over.  
  
"But Buffy," she pleaded, "I have to present the work for the final exam in two   
weeks, and I have nobody else to ask! I don't wanna get an F on this, it's   
important, pleeeease?"  
  
The blonde Slayer rolled her hazel eyes. "Have you asked Willow?"  
  
Cordelia just looked at her, coolly raising an eyebrow. "Willow? Be serious,   
please – she and Oz still do it with the lights switched off!"  
  
"Then ask your better half. I'm quite sure he won't mind exposing himself in all   
his... glory in front of you. And don't try to deny it, we live wall to wall and   
I know what those sounds are that you two make."  
  
Cordelia sent her a murderous look, but abstained from any cutting comeback.   
"The rules of the assignment say that it has to be a female nude. Come on, I   
promise you it will be something classy. You'll be proud of me."  
  
Letting her shoulders sink in defeat, Buffy leaned her elbows in the table,   
hiding her face between her hands. "Who would see it?" she asked.  
  
With a wide smile full of perfect white teeth, knowing that she had won,   
Cordelia leaned close to her. "Only you, me and my teacher."  
  
Buffy groaned. "I had that strangest horrible feeling when you decided to take   
that Human Drawing class as an option, but I didn't know why until now."  
  
"Great!!" the brunette girl exclaimed, fiercely hugging her friend. "You're the   
best! I swear you won't regret it."  
  
"Too late, I already do," the Slayer mumbled, taking a look around them. "Do you   
know when the rest of the guys are gonna come?"  
  
The brunette shrugged helplessly. "Willow will probably be with Oz, getting   
ready for the grand debut. And the mighty loser told me not to wait for him and   
the guys, that they had something to do in LA."  
  
The Slayer frowned at this. "Do you know what?"  
  
Once again, the former cheerleader shrugged. "You know, the usual. He said that   
they'd try to make it on time for the last set."  
  
Buffy shook her head. "I can't believe they're going to miss Oz's debut."  
  
"Well, you know them," Cordelia said resigned, "work always comes first."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The man moved like a shadow, and nestled beside the tall metallic structure of   
the antennae, like a predator awaiting for his prey. His dark blue eyes scanned   
the darkness around him.  
  
When he was completely sure that there wasn't anybody else up there, he rose   
from his secluded spot between the shadows, allowing the light of the   
almost-full moon to hit him squarely.  
  
He calmly walked to the edge of the roof, letting the cold wind of the night   
blow through his light brown hair and make his black trenchcoat flutter like a   
cape.  
  
The man lifted his right foot and, leaning it on the metallic banister that   
surrounded the roof, shouldered the huge crossbow that he carried in his hands,   
carefully aiming at the tower across the street through the weapon's night   
scope.  
  
Taking slow and controlled breaths through his nose, he watched for a second the   
show that was taking place on the other tower's helipad, as if it was some kind   
of twisted, evil circus.  
  
Immersed in the green electronic glow of the scope, he saw the black-robed men   
doing their strange, elaborate dance, making the preparations for the upcoming   
ceremony, placing the torches that burnt with white fury in a precisely drawn   
circle.  
  
He saw the boy, no more than a little kid, tied to the dark mahogany table,   
helplessly struggling with his bonds, crying, shouting. He could almost feel his   
fear, as if it was a physical wave crashing against him across the street.  
  
The man clenched his teeth together and lowered the nose of the crossbow, aiming   
this time at the last window of the tower. Exactly five centimeters above it. He   
closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, letting the air slowly come   
out of his lungs, forming a white mist when it mixed with the chilly air of the   
night.  
  
He fought the flow of the adrenaline in his veins, and felt his pulse slowing as   
a sea of calmness washed over him. His leather-gloved finger pushed the trigger,   
and the metallic harpoon of the crossbow flew away, carrying a long steel wire   
with it.  
  
It traced out a tense arc across the fifty meters that separated the two towers   
and stabbed the metal surface of the building, deeply embedding itself in it.  
  
The man let the crossbow fall to the ground and quickly ran back to the   
antennae, losing no time in operating the gear fastened to it until the wire   
that now joined the two towers together was completely tensed.  
  
As if time was the most precious thing in the world, he knelt down and, from the   
duffel bag that he had near the antennae and took a roller which he promptly   
locked onto the wire, closing its safety switch with a low click and checking   
the two handles.  
  
Then he took off his trenchcoat and let it fall to the ground, not minding at   
all when the wind blew it away like a black cloud. He double-checked all the   
zips and locks of his black jumpsuit, the radio on his waist, the receiver in   
his right ear and the twin voice-activated microphones tied around his throat.  
  
Finally, from his bag, he took a specially-made holster that he adjusted onto   
his shoulders, carefully locking it to his utility belt and jumpsuit. Under his   
right arm now hung a short-barreled Steyr AUG assault rifle.  
  
And, behind his left shoulder, a long scabbard with a gold and silver rapier.  
  
The man loaded a 42-round magazine into the rifle and racked back the slide,   
chambering a round. Then, after checking that the sword was handy and loose   
inside the scabbard, he took the handles of the roller in his hands and   
tightened his grip on them until his knuckles were white under his black leather   
gloves.  
  
His dark blue gaze settled firmly on the last window of the tower, and he tilted   
his head to one side and the other, making his tense vertebrae pop up.   
"Archangel Two here," he spoke loud and clear into the darkness of the night,   
"locked and ready in position."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Even though the two towers were far from being finished, due to the continuos   
delays on the project because of funding shortages, the 50th floor was   
completely furnished and at that very moment, the five men in the office were   
making good use of the facilities present there.  
  
"These rich guys sure know how to live," said one of them, stretching out on a   
large and comfy sofa and making some of his companions smile. "Ohhh, I could   
take me a nice long rest here."  
  
"We don't have time for that," another one told him, carefully looking at the   
dark street through the large window, "we have to complete the patrol."  
  
"What for?" his companion protested. "The whole damn building is empty, and the   
ceremony will be finished in a few minutes. What the hell are you looking at?"  
  
The black-robed man looked at him with distaste over his shoulder, and   
rearranged his grip on the Uzi. "I heard something," he simply said, letting his   
fingers trail over the polished surface of the Lawton-III armored window.  
  
"We're on the 50th floor, who do you think is out there? Superman?" The other   
men laughed, and the man on the sofa took a cigar box from the table nearby,   
offering it to his companion. "Relax, Bobby. You have to learn to calm down, or   
you'll have a heart attack, my man."  
  
Letting his shoulders sink down, Bobby smiled and walked to his friend,   
accepting one of the cigars from the box.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
In the darkness of the building's basement, the guards moved as quickly as they   
could, their long black robes sweeping across the dirty floor, raising a thin   
cloud of dust. They scanned every nook and cranny, searching for any possible   
threats, their Uzis locked and ready.  
  
"This is stupid," said one of them, opening the door to their intended   
destination. "I mean, what the hell are we doing down here?"  
  
His companion sighed with exasperation and rolled his eyes, while keeping the   
door open so the other man could walk into the blackened room without stumbling   
into anything.  
  
"We're following orders," he finally said when both of them were in the dark,   
exiguous room, following the rays of the first man's flashlight.  
  
With a snort, the man with the flashlight looked at him out of the corner of his   
eye. "Sure we're following them, man. What I mean is that we should be up there,   
attending the ceremony instead of down here, where Christ lost his sandal."  
  
The other man rolled his eyes again and shrugged, trying to dissipate some of   
the wetness of the basement, which had managed to worm under his clothes during   
their patrol. "We have to check all the possible entrances to the building, we   
can't afford to take any risks."  
  
"Nooo," he mocked his partner with deep sarcasm. "A Special Forces commando   
could enter through the sewers at the last minute. Sure."  
  
None of them noticed the man-shaped shadow that began to move behind their   
backs, getting closer to them with each passing second, not making any noise at   
all.   
  
The ray of the flashlight traced a path over the floor until it finally rested   
on a deep, circular hole that seemed to connect the basement with the same   
bowels of the earth.  
  
"What the... ?" mumbled the man with the flashlight. "Someone's taken the lid   
off."  
  
A noise, nothing more than a mouse scratching the rough floor with its paws,   
echoed behind them and, with both their guns cocked, they turned around,   
scanning the darkness that surrounded them with the powerful ray of the   
flashlight.  
  
Nothing. Only the dark-gray wet walls, the pipes running over them, the dust,   
and themselves.  
  
"Wrong side," told a voice behind them.  
  
Turning around once more, they jumped with surprise when they found themselves   
face to face with a demon hanging upside down at less than one meter from them,   
practically breathing on their necks.  
  
The ray of the flashlight only illuminated him for half a second, barely enough   
time to notice his red-gold eyes, the ridged features, the long fangs and the   
platinum-blonde hair.  
  
Then he moved like quicksilver, grabbing the head of the man with the flashlight   
and violently twisting it, breaking his neck with a sound of splintered bones.  
  
The lifeless body fell to the floor, the flashlight flying from his hand and   
dancing in the air as if trapped in a mad twister.  
  
Before the other man could even think of using his gun against the demon, he was   
already moving again, disentangling his legs from the frame-work of pipes that   
ran over the ceiling, letting himself fall and smoothly spinning in the air,   
landing on his boot-clad feet.  
  
The peroxide-blonde demon then connected a spinning kick to the man's chest,   
launching him backward with a sound of broken bones and making him collide   
against the wall.  
  
The man slipped to the floor, losing his grip on his weapon and finally landing,   
letting out a pained grunt and tasting his own blood on his lips. He blindly   
searched for the Uzi in the darkness of the room, touching the rough floor with   
his hands.  
  
Before he even had the chance to find the weapon, a low growl filled the   
sub-basement and he felt a clawed hand closing on his robe and yanking from it,   
making him stand up and pushing him once more against the wall.  
  
"Who are you?" he managed to ask when he felt the demon exposing his neck.   
  
He only saw the flash of a smile full of pointed fangs, before his whole world   
was engulfed into a sea of excruciating pain when the vampire bit him, sinking   
his fangs into the smooth flesh of his neck and draining him in a few seconds.  
  
Then, the vampire let the corpse of the guard fall to the ground, and smacked   
his thin lips with distaste.  
  
"Bleedin' vegetarians," he mumbled to no one in particular, adjusting the twin   
microphones around his throat, "they got water instead o' blood. Archangel Five   
'ere. Emergency exit clear, two tangos down."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The man in the elevator's hole observed the data quickly scrolling down the   
screen of his laptop, his handsome features illuminated by the eerie glow of the   
portable computer. His bright blue eyes moved with speed and precision,   
absorbing all the information as his nimble fingers flew over the keyboard.  
  
"Archangel Four here," he whispered into the darkness with a smile, when the   
information he was waiting for finally appeared on the screen, displaying a   
three-dimensional blueprint of the tower.  
  
"Thermal scan completed. Got fifteen tangos on the roof, another fifteen on the   
50th floor, guards on patrol on floors 1, 10 and 45. And five more tangos   
guarding the main door."  
  
His fingers flew once more, pressing the keys of the laptop. "Elevators one to   
nine locked out," he quickly closed the laptop and began to move away, climbing   
up the elevator's cabin to its roof. "I'm on my way."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The noise, the clank of metal against stone, alerted the two guards on the 45th   
floor, making them stop and turn around to face the bathroom's door. The first   
guard nodded to his companion and both of them moved in silence, placing   
themselves on each side of the door.  
  
When the guard nodded a second time, his companion forcefully kicked the door   
open and stepped into the bathroom, firing his gun and spraying the room with a   
rain of hot lead.  
  
In a second, the doors of the stalls were filled with bullet-shaped holes and   
the toilets exploded in clouds of china, letting a flow of water cover the   
floor.  
  
Then, while the man quickly reloaded his weapon, his companion advanced   
carefully and pushed each one of the stalls' doors with the mouth of his Uzi,   
taking a look inside. Nothing inside the first, nothing inside the second, the   
third, the fourth...   
  
When the turn for the 5th and last stall arrived, the black-robed guard stepped   
back and fired a short burst of bullets against it before violently kicking its   
door open, practically ripping it from its hinges.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Except the cover of the ventilation shaft, softly rocking from one of its   
screws.   
  
With a frown, the guard turned around to face his partner. "There's nothing   
here, we should..."  
  
The expression on his partner's face shut his mouth. His eyes were almost popped   
out and his mouth twisted in a grimace of half-surprise, half-pain. And there   
was a shining piece of sharpened metal coming out from his chest.  
  
Before he could react, an unknown force, barely giving him time to step aside to   
avoid it launched the lifeless body of his partner above him. He raised the Uzi,   
ready to open fire and felt a light breeze softly blowing through his hair and   
clothes.  
  
Suddenly, his gun hand was no longer attached to the rest of his arm and a thick   
flood of blood began to spray from his wrist, coating his clothes and forming a   
pool on the already wet floor. He looked ahead in astonishment, face to face   
with his opponent.  
  
The scariest and most beautiful sight he had ever seen. A gorgeous brunette   
marvel in black jumpsuit and combat boots. Then a flash of silver, the wetness   
of his own blood splattering his face and then nothing.  
  
The brunette woman watched as the body of the man slowly sank to the floor, and   
then she turned around, stepping out of the bathroom.  
  
"This is Archangel Three," she said, starting a silent run towards the stairs.   
"Floor 45 clean. I'm on my way."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The voice came then through everyone's speakers. It was a young voice, but full   
of authority and confidence, the voice of somebody who knew what he wanted.   
"Archangel Leader to all Archangels. Go in T-minus five..."  
  
Over the Kobayashi-2 tower's roof, the man with the dark blue eyes and the light   
brown hair tensed his grip on the roller's handles and felt the adrenaline   
pumping into his system, fueling him like a dose of amphetamines, and began to   
run to the roof's edge.   
  
"T-minus four..."  
  
At the building's entrance, the five acolytes standing guard watched in mute   
fascination as a soft blue glow surrounded the main crystal doors. A thin layer   
of white frost then began to cover them, slowly expanding through the walls,   
floor and ceiling of the ample hall.  
  
One of them looked around himself, seeing with amazement how his breath formed   
soft clouds of vapor in the air.  
  
"T-minus three..."  
  
On the 50th floor, the five acolytes guarding a group of scared, tied and gagged   
children turned around and raised their cocked guns when the elevators panel   
began to ding, the digital numbers quickly changing as the cabin climbed up the   
floors.  
  
"T-minus two..."  
  
The five men on the 50th floor office were having a very nice time, making good   
use of the cigars and the bottles of liquor they had found in a mini-bar. Bobby,   
the worried acolyte was now looking through the armored window, carefully   
watching the darkness outside.  
  
"I don't know what has you so worried," his friend told him, knocking slightly   
on the thick glass with his knuckles. "This little wonder has three layers of   
bulletproof glass, and if there was somebody out there he'd need a goddamn   
bazooka to penetrate it."  
  
Bobby just shook his head. "I could swear I saw something moving."  
  
"T-minus one..."  
  
The brunette woman reached the 50th floor and smoothly placed herself beside the   
access door, her leather-gloved hand around the door's handle.  
  
"GO!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Chuck, the waiter, jumped to the stage of the Bronze with a microphone in his   
hand, waving at the screaming audience, who was clamoring for the band to begin.  
  
"I know that you've been waiting for this," he said, when the crowd finally   
calmed a little. "Tonight, the Bronze is proud to host the debut of a new band   
I'm sure you're going to love as much as we do. Please give your warmest welcome   
to Oz and the Wolfpack!!"  
  
As the crowd erupted in cheers and shouts of joy, the band's lead guitar and   
singer, a red-haired young man with spiked hair, easy smile and cool blue eyes   
walked to the microphone at the front of the stage, arranging his grip on his   
guitar.  
  
He sent a quick smile and a wink to the red-haired girl that was smiling at him   
from the first line of the crowd, and leaned into the microphone, adjusting it   
to his somewhat short height.  
  
"This one's for Willow," he whispered to the microphone, making the audience   
cheer again, "for being there every time I need her."  
  
Taking a small step back, Oz nodded to the rest of his band and they began to   
let the music flow, the soft rhythms of a ballad coming out from their   
instruments, quickly and effectively transmitting the mood to the present   
public.  
  
Then Oz began to sing, surprising more than one person with his voice, energetic   
and full of life but broken and almost haunted at the same time. In a moment it   
was as if all those present were captivated into a common trance by the song,   
moving almost absent-mindedly at its rhythm.  
  
"And I relate to my best friend, she would advise me  
She broke our code and she put on her jacket  
Now it scares me because she's really gone  
Ooooh-oh-oh  
  
And I relate to my best friend, do you remember?  
She was so young and now that we're burning  
They're scared because she's really gone  
Ooooh-oh-oh"  
  
Then, Oz's guitar practically exploded into a potent solo as the song's pace   
quickened, transforming into a living pulse of energy and making the crowd   
scream their approval, as they jumped and danced along.  
  
"And if it's going to be my destiny  
I don't want to wait till it comes to me  
I will work so hard my hands will hurt  
I will pay for my sins, if so in hell  
  
Serenade! Serenade me!  
They say I'm dry but I'm just sick  
Serenade me!  
They say I'm cold but I'm just sick  
Serenade me!"  
  
With a final burst of notes from his electric guitar, Oz finished the song,   
making a little bow when the audience practically exploded in cheers and claps,   
clamoring for more and more.  
  
"That's my boyfriend!" Willow shouted from the first line, a big, loving smile   
on her lips. She sent a kiss to him and the red-haired musician trapped it in   
his hand, smiling back at her.  
  
=Could there be a greater sensation than this?= he wondered.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Sliding down the steel wire at top speed, Michael Deveraux couldn't help but   
scream at the top of his lungs, feeling the full force of the wind in his face   
as the street passed in a blur 50 floors beneath his feet.  
  
=This is doing things with style, damn it!= he thought.  
  
Holding himself from the roller only with his left hand and seeing the window   
getting closer and closer with each passing moment, the French Immortal took the   
rifle in his right hand and pulled the trigger, barely taking aim at all.  
  
The Austrian rifle roared, illuminating the night with a burst of fire as a   
cloud of silicon piercing-point bullets perforated the armored window as if it   
was made of hot butter, tracing deadly paths into the night.  
  
Inside the room, the bodies of Bobby and his friend shook under the endless   
impacts of the projectiles, like puppets in a storm.  
  
Blood splattered everywhere as the other three men dropped to the floor, in   
search of protection from the cloud of bullets that was turning everything   
inside the room into Swiss cheese.  
  
When he was at less than a meter from the window, Michael abandoned his grip on   
the roller, covered his face with his arms and raising his knees to a protective   
position, and let his body crash against the glass.  
  
As the window exploded, he smashed head-first into the room in a cloud of   
broken, razor-sharp pieces of glass.  
  
The French Immortal let out a grunt when he painfully landed over his shoulder   
and rolled over the floor, quickly jumping to his feet. He executed a perfect   
360 degree flip over the hole-filled couch, at the same time unsheathing his   
silver and gold rapier.  
  
Michael found himself between the three acolytes, who were already scrambling to   
their feet and pointing their automatic weapons at him. Moving with the coldness   
and surety of an experienced fighter, Michael sank the blade of his sword into   
the closest man's stomach.  
  
Grabbing him by his black robe, he then spun him around, holding his shaking   
body in front of him as a make-shift shield.  
  
The other two acolytes promptly opened fire with their Uzis and Michael felt the   
body of the man shaking in his embrace as the bullets hit him, piercing his   
chest and spraying his blood around.  
  
The French Immortal felt a burning pain in his side when one of the projectiles   
went through the acolyte's body and hit him; it wormed into his flesh through   
his black combat clothes, but the brown-haired man didn't let out a sound, and   
his face didn't reflect his physical pain.  
  
Michael grabbed the submachine-gun that hung under the dead man's arm and pulled   
the trigger, tracing out a deadly arc of fire and hot lead and practically   
shredding the two men into bloody pieces.  
  
When the bullet-filled bodies of the two men finally fell to the ground, Michael   
tore his sword out from the first acolyte's stomach and let him fall.  
  
Around him, the feathers of the couch's stuffing were still dancing in the air,   
slowly floating down to the floor. One of the remaining pieces of glass still   
attached to the window's frame fell down, and crashed against the carpet.  
  
Michael just raised an eyebrow, feeling the wound in his side already starting   
to heal, and he sighed deeply.  
  
"Amateurs," he muttered, stepping over the fallen bodies and quickly walking to   
the next door.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The five men in the hallway stared in open-mouthed amazement when the door of   
the stairs access was violently kicked open in front of them, and a black   
whirlwind jumped into the narrow passage, two twin beams of silver shining in   
her hands.  
  
As one the men lifted their automatic guns, ready to open fire against the   
beautiful woman. But she, moving between them with the graceful and elegant   
precision of a tigress, simply let the bright blade in her right hand flow like   
quicksilver – and the throat of the nearest man was suddenly showing a thin red   
line, all along his neck.  
  
His eyes reflected his surprise as a thick spray of blood erupted from the   
wound, coating his skin and drenching his black robes as his body began to fall   
down.  
  
The other men finally reacted and pulled the triggers of their Uzis, confident   
in trapping the woman inside a deadly circle of gunfire.  
  
Rachel Curran would have smiled at them, if she'd had the time to do so.  
  
The brunette Immortal simply jumped against the nearest wall and, pushing   
against it with her two feet, spun back in the air, taking herself away from the   
path of the bullets and letting the acolytes riddle themselves; they stumbled   
like puppets, then two of them fell down under their own weapons fire.  
  
Rachel landed smoothly on her feet and practically sank down, flexing her left   
leg and executing a roundhouse sweep with her extended right leg, that made one   
of the other two men fall to the ground.  
  
She let herself fall forward and rolled over her shoulders, pushing with them   
against the floor and launching her two legs up and against the last man's chin   
like a pair of stingers, hitting him with all the strength of her boot-clad   
feet.  
  
The man practically flew backwards and collided against the wall, as Rachel used   
her own momentum to land on her feet like a cat, connecting an immediate   
roundhouse kick with his face with enough force to break his neck.  
  
As the man fell down with his head twisted at an impossible angle, the brunette   
Immortal observed out the corner of her eye, the last man standing clumsily   
aiming at her with his gun.  
  
Rachel began to spin at the same moment that the man pulled the trigger, sending   
a cloud of bullets in her general direction.  
  
As if in slow motion, the brunette Immortal felt the little pieces of lead   
flying around her and she almost could smell their pungent odor of burnt cordite   
and hot steel.   
  
Like a dark whirlwind, Rachel danced between the bullets, dodging them as if she   
could predict their paths. She let fly one of her blades, which sailed through   
the space between them like a silver lightning bolt, before deeply embedding   
itself in the middle of the man's chest.  
  
The acolyte looked in astonishment at the sword stabbing him to the hilt, then   
at the beautiful brunette woman, and then just fell down dead.  
  
Rachel just wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead with the back of her   
gloved hand and closed her dark eyes for a second, breathing silently and trying   
to control the fast pace of her pulse.  
  
She moved to retrieve her sword, and felt a piercing pain in her left thigh.   
With surprise she looked down and found that one of the bullets had scratched   
her smooth skin, leaving a red trace.  
  
Pushing the ripped fabric of her black jumpsuit aside, she watched as small   
bolts of blue electricity flew across the wound. As she looked, the severed skin   
seemed to knit itself together and, a few seconds later, there was no sign of   
the gash anymore.  
  
Shaking her head, Rachel just pushed the dead man's body with her feet, leaning   
down to take the handle of the short wakizashi and gently yank at it. "I hate   
this part."  
  
With a disgusting sucking sound, the brunette Immortal finally tore the blade   
out, wiping its bloodied surface on the black robe of the man.  
  
"I need to find a new job," she muttered between clenched teeth, before walking   
away.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Cover the kids," ordered the main guard to a pair of his men, as the other two   
and himself began to run to the upcoming elevator.  
  
The men nodded sharply, and promptly directed the mouths of their Uzis to the   
tight group of scared children, whose screams of panic were muffled by the   
fabric of the gags around their faces.  
  
The two acolytes looked down at the tear-streaked faces and bulging eyes of the   
kidnapped kids, their hard faces not showing any compassion or regret and their   
fingers tightly closed around the triggers of their weapons.  
  
The three-man firing squad stood in front of the elevator's door and patiently   
waited, while the digital panel changed its display as the cabin climbed up the   
floors.   
  
...47... 48... 49... 50...   
  
"Fire!" commanded the leader and the three submachine-guns immediately began to   
vomit burning lead and fire, perforating the metal doors of the elevator even   
before they began to open, eliciting golden sparks with the contact.  
  
When the guns finally ceased their screams of death and remained silent, the   
leader took a step towards the cabin. He tried to dissipate the thick smog and   
awful smell of the burnt cordite with his hand, as the elevator automatic doors   
opened and closed in front of him, with a chipper 'ding'.  
  
The acolyte pushed both doors open, and took a look at the elevator's interior.   
It was shredded to pieces, filled with bullet holes; its fluorescent light had   
been torn away from its place on the ceiling and was flashing on and off, sparks   
coming from the place where it should have been attached to.  
  
But, otherwise, nothing at all.  
  
Then, the ceiling's trap door suddenly burst open and a dark bulk fell in front   
of his face. Startled, the man jumped back and, for an endless second, found   
himself looking straight at a pair of blue-eyed pools full of merriment and a   
shark-like smile full of perfect white teeth.  
  
"Surprise!" the upside-down man exclaimed cheerfully, as he drew a pair of   
compact MAC-11 submachine-guns and aimed them directly at him.  
  
The acolyte didn't have time to utter a word before the man, still hanging   
upside-down from the trap door on the ceiling, began to spray the hallway with   
automatic fire, sending a hot wave of bullets towards the three men.  
  
The leader's face and chest exploded into a disgusting mist of gore and blood,   
as he received the point-blank impact of the projectiles. He flew backwards,   
smashing against the ground and being closely imitated by the two men under his   
command.  
  
Kyle White Owl let his empty weapons fall free and he nimbly unhooked his legs   
from the trapdoor, spinning in the air and landing on his boot-clad feet. He   
quickly unholstered his black .44 Magnum revolver and carefully advanced along   
the hallway, his back against wall and the gun extended in front of him like a   
living extension of his body.  
  
He reached the corner and dared to take a fast look, quickly retreating back to   
avoid a rain of bullets from the remaining two guards, but enough to have a   
clear impression of his surroundings.  
  
He had the blueprints memorized, but there was nothing like having first-hand   
experience of the fire zone. The place in which they were was an ample waiting   
room, with thick marble columns supporting the high ceiling and a fountain in   
the middle, currently dry.  
  
A new rain of bullets tore off some plaster and wooden chunks from the corner,   
too close to his face for his own comfort, and the tall Texan sighed deeply,   
cocking his revolver's hammer and adjusting the twin microphones on his throat.  
  
"This is Archangel Four," Kyle chipped, "where are you guys? I'm kinda stuck in   
a jam here."  
  
Across the ample room a door burst open and Michael jumped into the place,   
rolling over the ground, dodging a new wave of shots and taking shelter behind   
one of the pillars.  
  
"Nice moves, Mickey," Kyle shouted, flashing an enormous smile to him.  
  
"Shut up and tell me how things are!" the French Immortal shot back. "And for   
the thousandth time, mon ami, don't call me Mickey! I'm no stinking rodent!"  
  
The French Immortal shouldered his rifle and released a short burst over the   
heads of the acolytes, making them sink down for cover. When the AUG was finally   
empty, he tossed the rifle away and unsheathed the sword from the scabbard on   
his back.  
  
"Merde!" he cursed between clenched teeth, when a new burst of machine-gun fire   
tore out a chunk of marble over his head. "I hate those damn guns!"  
  
"Oooh, come on!" his Texan friend laughed. "Don't be harsh with these guys,   
they're just exercising their constitutional rights!"  
  
Michael just glared at him coldly. "Talk to me, Kyle."  
  
The tall Texan took a new quick look, before retreating back into security   
behind the corner before the bad guys could spot him. "Two black-robed baddies   
with Uzis, about fifteen meters behind your pillar. They're covered behind the   
fountain's structure, and the kids are all around them."  
  
Michael risked having a quick look of his own and slowly rose to his feet, his   
back sliding up the pillar. "Do you have a clear shot?"  
  
"Negative," Kyle shook his head, with a grimace on his handsome face. "I'm not   
going to run the risk of hitting one of the hostages with..." his tirade was   
suddenly cut off, when the door next to him opened without warning. His hand   
moved smoothly, aiming at the upcoming figure and tensing his index finger on   
the gun's trigger.  
  
Rachel burst into the hallway, and found herself facing the wrong end of Kyle's   
revolver. She lost no time in raising her arms, showing that she was no threat   
and the tall Texan quickly drew back the weapon, letting out a sigh of unease.  
  
"Hold your horses, Cowboy," she told him with a smile, quickly taking a look at   
the situation and spotting Michael behind the pillar, taking cover from the   
endless wave of bullets that was raining over them. "What's going on?"  
  
Taking a flash-bang from one of the seemingly endless pouches in his jumpsuit,   
Kyle stared at her with amusement. "Bad boys with automatic weapons, innocent   
hostages and Mexican standoffs. You know, the usual... oh, and I think your   
boyfriend is about to do something really stupid."  
  
Rachel frowned at this and looked at Michael who, noticing her, winked at the   
brunette and playfully waved at her with a lopsided smile.  
  
"Oh, for Pete's sake," she growled, "he has the look."  
  
The Texan nodded with a snort. "You've noticed, huh?"  
  
"Michael!" she called the French Immortal, loud enough to make herself heard   
over the deafening thunder of the men's guns. "Don't you dare do anything...!"  
  
Her tirade was cut short when the French Immortal looked at her with those dark   
blue eyes of his and his trademark half-smile, barely showing his white teeth.   
The brunette Immortal just knew that nothing she could say would change his mind   
about his decision.  
  
She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing. "Michael..."  
  
The French Immortal clenched his teeth and, taking his sword with both hands,   
raised the blade until its cold surface touched his forehead, closing his eyes   
and muttering a silent prayer.  
  
"Cover me!" he shouted, rounding the pillar and beginning to close the fifteen   
meters that separated him from the two acolytes with long, fast steps.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
In the main hall, the five acolytes guarding the tower's entrance could barely   
remain standing up, as the cold inside the room quickly began to be unbearable.   
So much so, in fact, that their hands were glued to the metal of their guns,   
their arms were rigid and there were small traces of frost on their noses and   
under their lips.  
  
"We-we ha-have to get-t a-away fro-from here," one of the men managed to say,   
between his chattering teeth.  
  
At that very moment the low sound of something breaking, like rocks sliding   
against each other, began to fill the room. It made them turn around to the   
entrance and watch in helpless silence, as a web of cracks began to slowly   
extend all along the frozen wall as if invisible spiders were weaving them.  
  
The sound rose higher and higher to breaking point, until the men there thought   
that their eardrums were going to explode with the pressure, blood coming out   
from their ears and noses. But then, nothing more than silence.  
  
"Too late," whispered one of them.  
  
The whole wall exploded over them with the rumbling scream of a dam breaking, a   
rain of sharp fragments of stone, glass and steel piercing their black-robed   
bodies at supersonic speed.  
  
It made them fly backwards and fall to the floor as the shock-wave hit them   
square in the face, practically shredding them into pieces.  
  
The five men were dead before any of their bodies actually hit the ground, so   
none of them could see the ghostly, almost unreal apparition that passed over   
the still-settling debris, practically floating on the thin and cold air.  
  
If they could have seen her fiery red hair, her marble skin and deep green eyes,   
they would had thought that they were looking at the face of a Celtic goddess.  
  
With the gauzy white clothes floating around her like a halo, Crystal Parker   
looked at the fallen bodies and shook her head with sorrow, offering a silent   
prayer to the Goddess for their troubled souls, so they knew in death the peace   
they hadn't known in life.  
  
"The entrance is clear," she softly spoke to the microphones around her throat,   
uncomfortably shifting under their synthetic grasp. "I'm waiting for you."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Fifteen meters is usually a very short space, but to Michael Deveraux it felt   
like the distance to the moon. He managed to complete the first five meters   
before the first bullet hit him on his left shoulder, practically making it   
explode in a cloud of blood and bone fragments, leaving his arm hanging useless   
beside his body.  
  
Even when his mind screamed in pain at the wound, Michael just clenched his   
teeth and kept on running, concentrating in just making the next step and the   
next one.   
  
The two acolytes observed aghast as the man in the black jumpsuit practically   
shrugged their shots off as if they were nothing, his face a mask of   
determination as he took the bullets, closing the space that separated them more   
and more.  
  
They let their Uzis loose over him and watched as the projectiles impacted in   
his body, drawing thin clouds of blood, but it was like trying to stop a tornado   
with a garden hose.  
  
Michael reached the fountain practically blinded by the pain, feeling his energy   
flowing out of his body with his spilled blood, his Immortal healing factor   
working overtime.  
  
His blurred sight was focused on the nearest man, the one who was practically in   
the middle of the group of kids, which were now looking at Michael with scared   
eyes.  
  
Not without a good dose of irony, he thought that it wasn't strange; he could   
feel the blood flowing freely from his nose and the corners of his mouth, and   
most of his inner organs were quickly collapsing under the multiple impacts.  
  
He could easily imagine himself as some kind of nightmare, emerged from the   
depths of Hell.  
  
Well, no plan was ever perfect.  
  
With a last supreme effort, the French Immortal jumped over the fountain's rim   
and pushed himself up and forward over the acolyte, with his rapier extended on   
his only-working arm like a silver stinger.  
  
The last thing he saw before a burst of bullets hit him in his chest, was the   
expression of surprise on the man's face.  
  
Michael's dead body fell on its intended target, impaling the acolyte with the   
blade of his sword and pushing him down against the ground, the two bodies   
ending in a knot of still limbs on the floor.  
  
The other acolyte couldn't help but watch in mute astonishment as the black-clad   
man trapped his partner into a lethal embrace, and understood too late that he   
had just made his last mistake.  
  
His head turned around in slow motion, and practically found himself lost inside   
the wide void of Kyle's barrel.  
  
There was an endless second of almost-silence in which the only thing that could   
be heard was the soft sobbing of the kids, the thundering heart of the acolyte   
and Kyle's ragged breath.  
  
"Say your prayers, buddy," the tall Texan spat, pulling the trigger.  
  
The black, infinite hole of the barrel's mouth exploded into a cloud of dust and   
fire as the acolyte's world first turned red-hot with pain and then black-cold,   
as a bullet the size of a fist hit him in the chest. It dragged him five meters   
back, making him collide with the nearest wall.  
  
"Michael!" Rachel shouted, quickly kneeling down beside her lover's torn body,   
as Kyle began to free the tied kids around them, soothingly speaking to them so   
they wouldn't start screaming and running away.  
  
Laying her twin swords down beside her, she gently took Michael's head on her   
lap and lovingly caressed his face, cleaning the blood from his handsome   
features.   
  
"Is he dead?" asked a little voice beside her.  
  
Rachel raised her eyes from the prone form resting on her lap, and saw a girl of   
no more than seven years kneeling beside them. Her blue eyes were puffy and   
reddened, and dry tears streaked her cheeked face.  
  
The brunette Immortal smiled warmly at her, and rearranged a loose stray of her   
dirty golden hair behind her ear. "No, don't worry dear, he'll get better soon."  
  
=And when he does, I'm gonna kick his butt,= she added to herself.  
  
The girl looked at her with a clear expression of doubt on her face, but said   
nothing at all and just gently took Michael's light brown hair away from his   
forehead. Rachel took a look around herself, and her eyes met with Kyle's blue   
ones for a second.  
  
'We have to get out of here,' he mouthed to her in silence and she nodded,   
noticing with worry that the kids were beginning to get restless, some of them   
openly crying and calling for their mommies.  
  
The last thing she wanted right then, was to have to struggle with a bunch of   
scared little kids.  
  
As Kyle quickly finished untying the kids and began to take the bodies of the   
acolytes away from their view, Rachel checked her radio, speaking loud and   
clear. "Archangel Three here, we need help to take the hostages out. How are you   
doing, guys?"  
  
"Archangel Five 'ere," Spike's accented voice came out the earphones along with   
his usual snarl. "I'm on clean-up duty, I'll be there in a bloody second."  
  
"Hurry up, Blondie," Kyle said with an evil smile, "you're getting old."  
  
"Cowboy? You still alive?" Spike's voice seemed disappointed. "There's no   
justice in this world..."  
  
"Hey," Rachel softly called the girl's attention, "can you do me a favor? It's   
very important." The girl frowned, but nodded with decision and energy. "I need   
you to talk to your friends, calm them down, OK? We're going to take you out of   
here back to your mommies soon, I promise."  
  
"OK," said the girl with a sharp nod, seriously offering her hand to her. "I'm   
Lucy, you can count on me."  
  
"I trust in you, Lucy," the brunette Immortal seriously accepted her hand and   
shook it. "I'm Rachel."  
  
With a warm smile, she watched as the little girl jumped to her feet and   
promptly went to do as she was told, softly speaking to her little friends,   
trying to calm them a little.  
  
As had happened many times before, she felt a deep pain somewhere in her belly   
when she realized that she would never have a child of her own, that her   
otherwise supernatural body wouldn't allow her to know the mystery and wonder of   
pregnancy and childbirth.  
  
When the French Immortal's cobalt eyes blinked open, he was rewarded with the   
wonderful vision of the woman he loved, looking down at him with worried dark   
eyes, her beautiful face surrounded by her dark mahogany mane of hair.  
  
"Hey," he whispered, noticing her mood. "Everything alright?"  
  
She shook her head, barely containing a smile at seeing the deep affection in   
his gaze. "Michael, I swear that sometimes I don't understand what I see in   
you."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "If you ever dare to pull this crap on me again, I swear   
by everything that's sacred that I'll make you pay for it," she finished up.  
  
He offered a devilish, roguish smile just for her. "Is that a promise, ma   
chèrie?"  
  
"Don't push me too far, Jean-Michel," she growled, helping him to his feet.  
  
Raising an eyebrow at hearing her calling him by his real first name, Michael   
took a quick look around, examining the situation. At that very moment, the   
access to the staircase opened and a fully vamped-out Spike came into the room,   
his everlasting cigarette burning itself between the black nail-polish covered   
fingers of his right hand.  
  
"Spike!" Michael called him, quickly stepping between him and the kids. "Are you   
nuts or what?" he hissed, pointing at his game face.  
  
With a clueless frown, the bleached-hair vampire passed a hand over his edged   
features, before allowing his human mask to form.  
  
"Oops, sorry about that, mate," he grinned sheepishly. "Forgot about it, in the   
heat o' the moment 'n all."  
  
"Everything clear?" the French Immortal asked, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Yeah," Spike nodded, rearranging his long leather duster on his shoulders,   
"green light on all o' the floors. Those bloody wankers were right where the   
Cowboy said they'd be. I took good care of..." he looked aside, and not very   
politely, hid a burp in his fist. "Sorry about me manners, mate, but I got a   
full belly tonight."  
  
Michael closed his eyes and shook his head at the British vampire's full smile,   
and turned around to face Rachel and Kyle, who were gathering and organizing the   
kids for the evacuation. "D'accord mes amis, we are getting our asses out right   
now. Kyle, re-connect the elevators."  
  
As the tall Texan promptly went to do as he was told, Michael turned to Rachel.   
"Divide the kids into three groups and take them to the ground floor, where Cris   
has cleared the entrance. Once there, I want you to call the police and   
paramedics, and clear the site when they arrive."  
  
Rachel nodded sharply and grabbed Spike by the shoulder, practically dragging   
him away while the French Immortal went in search of his sword.  
  
"I don't wanna go with you!" he heard one of the kids telling Spike. "You look   
weird. And you smell weird too!"  
  
The vampire's grunt of response was cut off by a wave of childish 'he smells   
weird, he smells weird'.  
  
Spike soon looked like he wanted to stake himself, completely surrounded by   
those little three-feet-tall monsters.  
  
"Quiet!" he finally exclaimed with a roar. "Or I'll 'ave the lot of ya for   
dinner!"  
  
"Sure," the first kid snorted with disbelief, rolling his eyes.  
  
Spike knelt down beside the kid and, with his face at less than 10 centimeters   
from the boy's nose, let his game face show for a second. "You can bet on it,   
runt," he growled through his fangs.  
  
The boy looked at him with wide eyes, and shut his mouth.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Rachel asked Michael, when she finally had the kids   
organized and ready to go.  
  
The French Immortal spotted his rapier on the floor and with the instep of his   
foot made it jump up, nimbly catching it in mid-air by its handle. Then,   
offering a goofy grin to his lover, he saluted her with the sword.  
  
"I'm going to see how the boss is doing," he told her, before quickly starting   
to run towards the staircase.  
  
With a frown, Rachel let her dark eyes rise to the ceiling, asking herself what   
he would be doing indeed.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"He'll be OK," Buffy said, feeling that it was the thousandth time she had told   
Cordelia these exact words. "You know he can take care of himself. All of them   
can."  
  
On the stage, Oz and the Wolfpack were now playing a new song, this one much   
more potent and quick and the crowd was dancing along, turned into a sweaty mass   
of young bodies in search for some natural adrenaline rush.  
  
"Tell you my love where to hide me away  
Tell you my love where to find me again  
Why cry, leggy smile I never had  
Star inner style, golden dreams that passed me by  
  
Tell you my love reckless nights passed away  
As I tried not to hate I won't care what they say  
Why cry, leggy smile I never had  
Star inner style, golden dreams that passed me by  
That passed me by..."  
  
The former cheerleader looked at her friend, not very convinced. Turning around,   
she faced the rest of their friends that, with the passage of time, had joined   
them to witness the debut Oz's new band.  
  
"Having a nice time?" she asked, trying to move her thoughts away from certain   
dark-haired vampiric Immortal.  
  
"Certainly," the middle-aged man in the tweed suit said, removing his spectacles   
to clean them with an absent-minded expression. "I-I would say that being here,   
with all these youngsters who are half my age spasming around me, listening to   
this... I'll say music for the lack of a better term, I feel like I'm right at   
home."  
  
"Drop the sarcasm, Giles," Buffy told him, "it doesn't look good on you."  
  
Giles just arched his eyebrows and emitted a groan that could mean anything,   
from agreement to pure desperation.  
  
"I like them," the blonde woman sat next to him, "I think they're good. And if I   
were... a few years younger, I would be out there, dancing."  
  
If anyone noticed the expression of absolute panic that crossed the Slayer's   
face and the horrified yelp that was provoked from her by the image of her   
mother dancing in the middle of a crowd of quivering teenagers, nobody made any   
comment about it.  
  
Nevertheless, the dark-haired and handsome man on whose lap she was sitting took   
her slender hand in his large one, giving her a warm smile.  
  
"What do you say, little Angel?" she asked the souled vampire, after softly   
kissing him on his cold lips. "Having a good time?"  
  
"With you? Always."  
  
"Ooooh," Cordelia and Joyce cheered.  
  
"Hey," the blonde Slayer warned them, moving her arms around her boyfriend's   
shoulders, "Get a life."  
  
"You said I'm on fire  
Well I don't think so and she said fine  
You said don't lie  
Well I don't think so and she said fine  
I'll close my eyes and die  
  
Tell you my love where to hide me away  
Tell you my love where to find me again  
Why cry, leggy smile I never had  
Star inner style, golden dreams that passed me by.  
That passed me by..."  
  
"Actually," Angel observed once his liplock with the Slayer had ended, "I gotta   
admit, they are really good. Well, they aren't the Bay City Rollers but   
still..."  
  
"Oh!" Giles practically squeaked at hearing this. "Now, that was music."  
  
The Watcher and the vampire looked at each other with knowing smiles, exchanging   
a nod of agreement. Joyce just raised an eyebrow, sipping from her soft drink.  
  
"Well, thanks for making me feel younger, guys," she said with affection. "It's   
good to know that you can be still be cool saying that."  
  
She looked at her daughter with worry. "You still say 'cool', right?"  
  
Buffy looked around, trying to find a hole in which to hide herself.  
  
"You said I'm on fire  
Well I don't think so and she said fine  
You said don't lie  
Well I don't think so and she said fine  
I'll close my eyes and die."  
  
A sweaty and almost-breathless Willow came out of the crowd, practically   
stumbling until she got a good grip on the table. She quickly took her soda, and   
finished it off in a few gulps.  
  
"Easy, easy!" Cordelia exclaimed, patting her back when the redhead began to   
choke on the soft drink, so quickly was she trying to swallow it. "Get a grip,   
girl!"  
  
"I don't want to miss anything!" she squeaked in delight. "It's a success. They   
love them! I love them! I'm so proud I'm... I'm... I can't find the word!"  
  
"Y-you're ecstatic," Giles offered.  
  
"You're flipping out," Cordelia muttered under her breath.  
  
"You're babbling," Buffy stated.  
  
But Willow was so excited that she looked high on a caffeine overdose, and   
completely ignored them. "What are you doing here?" she almost shrieked, taking   
her two best friends' hands and practically dragging them to the dance floor.   
"We have to dance! Dance! Dance!"  
  
"Ouch!" Cordelia massaged her pained hand. "Willow, do you know your own   
strength?"  
  
"You'd rather... ! You'd rather... !  
I couldn't watch you before  
Now you play every night!  
  
You'd rather... ! You'd rather... !  
I couldn't watch you before  
Now you play every night!"  
  
The three adults watched in amusement as the three younger girls danced and   
swung along to the chords of the music, the three of them so physically   
different and yet so similar in their joy for life, in the way that they gave   
their feelings and inner strength to those who surrounded them.  
  
In the middle of that faceless crowd, the three friends shone out like a   
precious diamond in a pile of coal.  
  
"It's difficult to believe," Angel whispered, to nobody in particular.  
  
Joyce looked at her daughter's boyfriend with a frown. "Believe what?"  
  
The dark-haired vampire shrugged. "That there are things out there right now.   
Vampires, demons, the forces of the darkness. At moments like this, it's   
difficult to believe that things like me exist."  
  
The middle-aged woman just took his large hand in her smaller one and squeezed   
it warmly, offering him a look of understanding. "You know what they say, Angel.   
'For every shadow...'"  
  
The vampire nodded, smiling. "'...there's a light to make it vanish.'"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Cecil turned to his Mistress, with his eyes full of concern. "It seems that   
there are problems in the building, maybe we should..."  
  
"We'll start the ceremony right now," Myriam sharply cut him off with a dry   
gesture, walking to the makeshift altar. "Call the guards, and tell them to get   
the first offering ready. You!" she shouted to the rest of her acolytes, "take   
your positions around the table, the time has come!"  
  
The black-robed men quickly adopted their prearranged positions inside and   
around the circle, copying with their bodies the positions of the constellations   
at that precise moment.  
  
Myriam took out a sacrificial dagger from the dark insides of her robe, lifting   
the obsidian blade over the tied-and-gagged boy who looked at her with terrified   
eyes, his breath coming in and out so fast that he was hyperventilating.  
  
Thunder roared. Lightning crashed.  
  
"Oh, my dark Lady," she chanted with a convinced, fanatical voice as her   
acolytes' low voices rose around her, their chant a hypnotic murmur coming from   
under their black hoods.  
  
"Hear my call on this night of a thousand years, hear my call and accept this   
offering of innocent blood that is spilled in your name. We will drink it and   
the way will be opened for you to come. Come to us!!"  
  
"Are you there?" Cecil spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie, shaking it as if it   
were broken when he didn't get any response at all. "Is anyone receiving me?"  
  
He fumbled with the controls of the walkie-talkie, searching on the different   
frequencies, but receiving only static as a response.  
  
With a frown, the huge acolyte turned around to his Mistress. And his mouth went   
dry. "Oh, shit!"  
  
Myriam was about to let the stone dagger sink into the boy's body when her   
acolyte's voice cut through her ears like a knife, making her look at the man   
with eyes full of anger. But his expression prevented her from shouting at him.  
  
Cecil was beyond pale, he was cerulean. His big, bovine eyes were lost somewhere   
behind her, directly over her shoulder; and his mouth was hanging open in a   
stupid grimace, a mix of surprise and fear.  
  
Very slowly, Myriam turned around and all her acolytes with her, facing where   
Cecil was looking at.  
  
A new burst of thunder dramatically rumbled in the dark skies above them, making   
her jump a little with surprise. A lightning bolt again stabbed the darkness   
with blinding blue-white fury, striking the antennae on the other roof and   
provoking an explosion of yellow electric sparks, that slowly floated down like   
feathers.  
  
From the electric light of the storm, all she could see of the man standing on   
the roof's edge was his dark silhouette, outlined against the blue and golden   
glow of the electric light show.  
  
He was tall and well-built, with broad shoulders covered by a long coat that   
reached down to his knees, hiding the rest of his features inside a blanket of   
darkness.  
  
He looked like a ghost, more than anything else.  
  
Myriam was clueless about how he had managed to climb up to the roof; the little   
structure that housed the roof access was at the other end of the building, and   
there was no other way of getting up here... unless he could fly, of course.  
  
But the most amazing thing was the power that she was perceiving from him,   
coming out from the dark silhouette in deep crimson waves that were almost   
overwhelming. Such darkness, such potential...   
  
The light provided by the explosion slowly faded away, and the still form of the   
man became more and more visible as the darkness enveloped him like the embrace   
of a lover.  
  
Not without a little surprise, Myriam noticed that he was barely more than a   
boy, his young and handsome features a surprising contrast with his dark clothes   
and attitude.  
  
A cold gust of wind flowed over them, making the man's coat flutter like a cape   
at his back and snap like a whip.  
  
His clothes were completely black under his long leather coat. Black jeans,   
black boots, black untucked silk shirt... his pale, almost marble skin stood   
against them and his dark hair gleamed, shining with inner light.  
  
But his eyes... =Oh my, his eyes...=  
  
They were like bottomless pools of darkness – sad, ancient beyond belief. As if   
they had seen too much, lived too much. He had the eyes of a dark god, boring   
into her body with slow, quiet rage.  
  
Myriam Archer understood then that she was the one who was being examined like a   
bug under a microscope, maybe even being judged at this very moment.  
  
That was when she saw the sword.  
  
It was a Japanese katana that he was almost casually holding in front of himself   
in his left hand, his long slender fingers around the top of the black,   
silver-topped scabbard, near the silver hilt of the sword.  
  
The handle of the katana was wrapped in black silk, and the silver pommel had   
been exquisitely carved in the form of a roaring dragon.  
  
"Who are you?" Myriam asked, practically captivated by the intense gaze of the   
stranger's dark eyes. "Have you come to witness the coming of the dark Lady?"  
  
The stranger slowly shook his head, closing his eyes almost with a sad   
expression. Very slowly, he pushed the hilt of the sword with his thumb, showing   
a few inches of the sword's dark gray blade, which shone under the effect of the   
pale moonlight with a menacing glow.  
  
Myriam's mouth slowly extended into a sick, twisted grin. "My own dark   
exterminating angel," she whispered, tilting her head to one side.  
  
"Kill him!" the adept then shouted.  
  
Alexander Lavelle Harris wondered how many times he had heard those same words,   
in the last few years. And, not without a twisted feeling of irony, how many   
times he would hear them again in the future.  
  
He was moving even before the woman's lips were completely closed, launching   
himself forward and tracing an arc with the sword as he unsheathed its long,   
curved blade.  
  
Half a second later and he already was over the first man, making him fall under   
the silent wind of the katana, jumping aside and spinning over the ground, in   
search of the next target even before the first one knew he was dead.  
  
No sound accompanied his movements but the soft whisper of the wind, sliding   
over his sword and clothes.  
  
No war cry, no smug shout of superiority, no expression on his face as his dark   
blade danced its deadly dance, slashing and cutting in a whirlwind of blood and   
death. Brutal, savage, merciless.  
  
Another man fell, and then another, and yet another as Xander flowed between   
them with graceful precision, not stopping a moment to allow himself the luxury   
of thinking, just feeling the thrill of the carnage pumping inside his veins   
like molten lava, fueling him like pure adrenaline.  
  
He felt his fangs beginning to form under his lips, his features melting and   
rearranging when his true face came to show. A growl was born in the pit of his   
belly, climbing up his esophagus and turning into a roar that could not be   
denied.  
  
His body moved even faster, to a point where it was nearly impossible to follow   
him with the naked eye. Xander felt blood splattering his face when his sword,   
edged like a razor, opened the throat of a man and his vital liquid came out   
like the spray of a fountain.  
  
Sweet, coppery, delicious.  
  
One second more, a turn, a jump and a spin and he was face to face with the dark   
Mistress, breathing heavily not because of the physical effort but by the   
thrilling, almost sexually arousing feeling of the hunt.  
  
He had one hand around the handle of the katana and the other one still holding   
the scabbard that, like a makeshift garrote, had caused its own amount of   
destruction.  
  
The sword's bloody blade was leaning on the woman's throat, even before the last   
of the bodies hit the ground, his red-gold eyes were locked with the woman's icy   
ones and he could feel the men's blood on his skin, coating his hair and   
clothes.  
  
He could taste its sweet, coppery flavor on his lips, so rich, so full of life   
and energy that it made him crave for more. To drink, to feed until that   
burning, dry sensation in his throat was alleviated, until he was finally   
satiated.  
  
The only thing that kept him from beheading the woman was the fact that she had   
the edge of her dagger to the boy's throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Xander   
saw the last man remaining moving behind him, an automatic Uzi in his hands.  
  
"Vampire," she hissed with unadulterated hatred. "You have gained nothing here,   
but you've spoiled everything... why have you done this?"  
  
Xander's vampire eyes settled on the woman's face for a second, before shaking   
his head sadly. Very slowly, he took his sword away from Myriam's neck and   
sheathed it, carefully wiping the blade between his thumb and forefinger as it   
was slid inside the scabbard.  
  
For the first time, he spoke. "You wouldn't understand it."  
  
"Why don't you try anyway?"  
  
Letting out an unnecessarily long sigh, Xander indicated the captive boy with   
his head. "For him," he simply said.  
  
"Him?" She looked incredulous. "He is nothing, nobody – he doesn't matter in the   
slightest."  
  
Xander's dark eyes looked at her, with a expression that was a mix of pity and   
resignation. "I told you that you wouldn't understand it."  
  
Then he began to move again, letting himself fall backwards with an smooth   
movement that seemed to flow like water.  
  
Leaning down on his right hand, his body spun around like a winch, one of his   
feet kicking the woman's arm up and away from the boy's throat and the other   
ripping the gun from the acolyte's big hands.  
  
Before any of them knew what was happening, the young vampire was already on his   
feet again, his black katana emerging from its scabbard blade-down and slashing   
across Cecil's chest.  
  
With a cry of pure rage and hate towards the man that had ruined everything she   
had been waiting for all her life, Myriam jumped at Xander's back; her   
sacrificial dagger tracing a deadly arc towards him, directly towards his heart.  
  
Xander felt her moving even before she actually started to do so; closing his   
eyes with a expression that was pure heart-wrenching sadness, he just spun his   
katana, trapping the blade between his waist and right elbow.  
  
He let the woman impale herself on the dark gray edge with a sound of ripped   
fabric and flesh, until her chest touched his back, the red-colored blade coming   
out of her body.  
  
The young vampire felt her dying breath, half-pain, half-surprise, caress his   
ear and neck. Clenching his pointed teeth together, he yanked at the sword,   
extracting it from the woman's body, which fell to the ground as a dark   
shapeless pile of meat.  
  
Slowly turning around, Xander took a look at the carnage that he had caused in   
just a few moments, the torn and broken bodies on the ground, the rich scent of   
blood floating in the air, and he couldn't help but shudder at the scenario.  
  
At what he had done.  
  
Pushing away all negative thoughts, knowing that they would reemerge later to   
haunt him, the young vampire sheathed his sword in its scabbard and quickly   
walked to the mahogany table, checking on the boy's state.  
  
He looked scared, a thing he couldn't be blamed for, but otherwise unharmed.  
  
Using his razor-sharp claws, Xander cut his bonds, quickly freeing him and   
taking off his gag while he let his human mask slip over his vampiric features.  
  
"Are you alright?" he gently asked the boy.  
  
He nodded, with saucer-wide blue eyes. "Are you a superhero? Are you Batman?" He   
looked really impressed.  
  
Despite himself, Xander chuckled with true amusement. "No, I'm just..."  
  
He couldn't find the right word to define himself. Shaking his head, he made the   
sword vanish inside his coat and took the boy in his arms, gently resting his   
head on his shoulder. "What's your name?"  
  
"I'm James, but everybody calls me Jimmy."  
  
"OK, Jimmy, listen to me very carefully," Xander's voice had suddenly acquired a   
deep tone, vibrating and mesmerizing. "All of this, all these people, everything   
you've seen, including myself, it's just a bad dream, OK?"  
  
The boy yawned, and felt his blue eyes beginning to close. "I'm not sleeping,"   
he protested, "not yet."  
  
"Oh yes you are," Xander gently insisted, swiftly rocking him as he walked to   
the stairs access. "You just don't know you're sleeping. Tomorrow, you'll wake   
up in your bed and you'll have forgotten everything. You don't need to..." the   
boy's soft snore nuzzled his ear, "...worry."  
  
The door opened at that very moment, and Xander's whole being was assaulted by a   
not-exactly-unpleasant 'buzz' that made him shiver before it made itself   
comfortable at the back of his neck. Michael practically jumped onto the roof,   
his rapier shining gold and silver under the weak light of the moonlight.  
  
A burst of thunder crashed violently above them, and the two men jumped with   
surprise.  
  
"Why does everything always have to be so fittingly dramatic?" the French   
Immortal asked with a smile.  
  
Xander just shrugged, adjusting his grip on the sleeping child in his arms.   
"Just lucky, I guess."  
  
He took a slow and complete look at his friend's attire, noticing his   
bullet-riddled clothes, and raised a dark eyebrow. "Don't tell me, you had a   
fight with a vending machine and you lost."  
  
Michael just passed a finger over Xander's cheek, and showed his reddened   
fingertip at him. "Mon frère, those who live in glass houses..."  
  
The young vampire snorted, beginning to walk past him. "The difference is that   
this blood is not mine."  
  
"It won't make any difference if it is yours or not, when you try to clean it   
out of your clothes. Merde," the French Immortal softly cursed with a frown.   
"Wait a moment, s'il te plait."  
  
Michael quickly ran to the mahogany table, and the figures fallen beside it.   
Kneeling down beside them, he took the sacrificial dagger from the woman's dead   
fingers and a card from the interior of his jumpsuit that he examined, checking   
that no bullet had damaged it.  
  
It was a Tarot-sized card, but instead of the usual drawings, it featured a   
white-clad angel with wide-spread wings, a lopsided halo and a devil's tail that   
was smiling crookedly and trying to conceal a red trident behind his back.  
  
With a smug grin, the French Immortal used the sacrificial dagger to nail it to   
the surface of the table and stepped back, contemplating his work.  
  
"That's for you to remember us," he whispered, before turning around to where   
Xander was waiting for him.  
  
"Help me," a ragged voice said near him. "It hurts."  
  
Michael turned around, looking at the broken bodies of the men and the black   
Mistress and noticed that one of them was still barely breathing, a pink foam   
coming from his mouth as his lungs quickly collapsed.  
  
The French Immortal carefully knelt down beside him and, taking off one of his   
gloves, checked the pulse on the acolyte's carotid, feeling the erratic beat of   
his heart. He barely had minutes left.  
  
"Help me," he repeated, a thin stream of blood slowly flowing from the corner of   
his lips.  
  
Michael's first impulse was to tell the man off but, instead, he closed his dark   
blue eyes and took a deep breath, shaking his head as he made a gesture towards   
Xander. The young vampire nodded, and walked to the structure of the stairs   
carrying the now-sleeping child in his arms.  
  
"What's your name?" he asked the man, gently opening his robe and looking at the   
terrible wound caused by the razor-sharp edge of Xander's katana. The blade had   
cut flesh, muscle and bone, exposing the interior of the man's chest and   
probably opening up one of his lungs.  
  
"Cecil," the acolyte whispered with an effort.   
  
"Very well, Cecil," Michael said, trying to gather all his self-control. "I'm   
not going to lie to you. You're going to die, and there's nothing I can do about   
that. You have a punctured lung; I don't know if it's from the sword or one of   
your own ribs, but I guess that doesn't really matter."  
  
"What matters," he continued, taking the fallen man's Uzi from the ground and   
extracting its magazine, checking that there was still one bullet remaining in   
the gun's chamber, "is that in a few moments you'll begin to choke on your own   
blood and you'll die, slowly and painfully. Don't ask me how I know that, but I   
know it for sure."  
  
Placing the weapon in the man's hands, Michael slowly stood up. "There's one   
bullet left," he said coldly. "Use it wisely."  
  
Then, he began to calmly walk away, tossing the clip far away into the darkness   
of the roof. He could almost physically feel the eyes of the man boring into his   
back, and the mouth of the gun wavering, as the man doubtfully aimed at him.  
  
Michael didn't slow his pace or look back but, when the roar of the gunshot   
finally rumbled in the night like the thunder of the rising storm, he couldn't   
avoid flinching. Even when he knew that the acolyte had taken the only right   
decision.  
  
The French Immortal walked into the stairwell of the roof access and looked   
sadly at his younger friend, who was waiting for him.  
  
"Was that really necessary?" the young vampire asked him, as they began to climb   
down the stairs.  
  
Michael shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Non, mon ami. It wasn't   
necessary, but it was the most honorable thing to do. If there was one thing   
that my teacher taught me, it was that even the worst of your enemies deserve   
your consideration, at the time of your victory in battle."  
  
He let out a long, tired sigh. "That and the granting of a quick, clean death."   
  
After a few moments of tense silence, Xander raised his eyebrows. "And what   
about the card?"  
  
Michael finally smiled at him with his habitual goofy grin. "Now, mon frère,   
that was fun. And it will help to tell the rest of them who really rules this   
place."  
  
With a crooked smile, Xander offered his hand to his Immortal friend, which he   
softly accepted with a slap. "Archangels rule, Jean-Michel."  
  
"Archangels rule, Alexander."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
With a tired grunt, Oz finished arranging the instruments and equipment in the   
back of his van, closing the sliding door before turning around to say goodbye   
to the rest of his band.  
  
"Well, guys," he said, slapping everyone's hand, "nicely played tonight. But we   
still can do better." A collective groan emerged from the four men, and Oz   
couldn't help but smile.  
  
"Come on, Oz," objected Nino, the bass player. "We did great tonight." The rest   
of the band muttered their agreement.  
  
Oz just shrugged. "We managed not to make them puke, and some people would be   
satisfied with that, but I'm one of those freaks who actually likes to do his   
music right. Anyway," he added, sending a quick glance at the almost-full moon   
above them, "I'm gonna be... busy for the next three nights, so we can take a   
break for a while."  
  
Before he could change his mind, the Wolfpack quickly said goodbye to their   
leader and walked away, practically stepping on each other's toes in their haste   
to get the hell away from the red-haired tyrant.  
  
"Take care!" Oz shouted at their vanishing backs, before adding in a lower   
voice, "you don't know who you could stumble into in the dark."  
  
"Maybe a vampire," said a deep male voice behind him.  
  
Oz just smiled, while slowly turning around and facing his friends. "Or a   
werewolf."  
  
Willow practically jumped in his arms, kissing him long and sweetly on the lips.   
"But you could always be lucky, and find an apprentice of Wicca."  
  
The red-haired musician hugged his girlfriend tight, and kissed her back. "I   
only know one of those in this town, and she's mine."  
  
"You can bet on it."  
  
As they rubbed their noses together, lost in their own world, the blonde Slayer,   
her arm around Angel's waist, turned to the rest. "Well, I hate to leave this   
way, but the American Undead here and myself are going to do a fast patrol   
before it starts to rain again."  
  
"It's Irish Undead," Angel corrected her. "I'm proud of my origins, you know."  
  
Ignoring him, Buffy quickly kissed her mother on the cheek and hugged the rest   
of her friends, playfully messing with Oz's spiked hair when his turn came.   
"Well done, Wolf-man Jack. You got real talent."  
  
The red-haired musician was about to blush when, with a final goodbye and good   
night, the Slayer and her vampire boyfriend walked away, in search of any vamp   
stupid enough to cross their path.  
  
"Well," Cordelia finally said when they were out of sight, "I hate to be the   
spoilsport, but it's like cold, dark and wet out here, there's classes tomorrow,   
I'm tired and I wanna go home."  
  
"And considerably angry," Oz observed with the slightest raising of his red   
eyebrows, "from what I can see."  
  
Indeed, there was something that surprisingly resembled a dark cloud hanging   
over the brunette girl's head. All the friends present trembled looked at her,   
so well did they know her.  
  
"Well, I would be better if certain guy whose name I'm not going to mention but   
who is a   
'I'm-so-powerful-a-vampire-that-I-don't-need-to-call-my-girlfriend-to-tell-her-I'm-gonna-be-late',   
would have called to tell his girlfriend that he was going to be late!"  
  
Oz shared a look with his girlfriend, and arched slightly his eyebrow. "That has   
to be the longest nickname I've ever heard." Willow just giggled in silence.  
  
"But nooo," Cordelia continued her tirade in spite of the looks on her friends'   
faces, "he has to play the macho man, and make us wait as if he's some kind of-"  
  
"Cordelia!" Giles cut her off, massaging the bridge of his nose, to prevent his   
upcoming headache. "I think that if Xander and the rest said that they had   
something more important to do, it was because they certainly had something more   
important to do. Please, don't take that personally, Oz," he added with a last   
thought.  
  
"No problem," the werewolf shrugged.  
  
Cordelia practically snorted. "Yeah, something more important like what? I   
mean," she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow with a sarcastic expression,   
"you can't really expect me to believe that there's a world-wide threat out   
there every week!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Barely a block from the twin Kobayashi Towers, a sewer lid moved seemingly by   
itself, just a little at first. Until it was finally pushed up from the ground   
and put aside, as if it didn't really weigh anything at all.  
  
One by one, the six figures emerged from the dark interior of the sewer and   
quickly walked away, moving between the shadows as if they belonged to them,   
until they reached two vehicles that were parked nearby.  
  
"I hate to leave like this," Kyle protested, tiredly leaning his tall frame on   
the hood of his cherry-red Nissan Pathfinder.  
  
"You mean without saying goodbye?" Rachel opened the door, and took a pair of   
small binoculars that she used to watch the entrance of the now-distant towers.  
  
"Well, that too, but I was thinking more along the lines of walking through the   
sewers. That may be good for the blonde princess – but for those of us who   
actually need to breathe, it's just plain nauseous."  
  
"Yeah, like steppin' into the bathroom after you've used it." Spike propped   
himself over the hood, lighting up a new cigarette.  
  
Kyle just gave him the finger. "Screw you, Spike."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire smiled at him mischievously. "Is that a proposal,   
Cowboy?"  
  
"Enough, people," Xander cut them off before their tirade got out of hand.   
"Crystal, any residual effects?"  
  
The white-clad witch shook her head, making her fiery red locks swim around her   
face. "I've blessed the place, and performed a warding ritual; any residual   
energy from their ceremony will have vanished by now."  
  
Nodding his agreement, the young vampire turned to Rachel. "What do you see,   
Rach?"  
  
"The paramedics are evacuating the kids," the brunette Immortal told him,   
carefully examining the scene, "and the guys in blue seem to have everything   
under control."  
  
"Bloody smurfs," Spike laughed aloud. "Wonder what they're gonna write in their   
stupid reports?"  
  
"I'm having a vision," Kyle announced, closing his eyes and moving the back of   
his hand to his forehead, as if he were about to faint. "'Street gangs' fight   
for control of the PCP market ends in carnage.' How do you see it?"  
  
"A little long for a newspaper's front page," Michael said, taking a long   
trenchcoat from the interior of his 1978 Cadillac Coupe DeVille's trunk before   
closing it. "I'd give it the third page."  
  
Spike shook his bleached head. "Naah, a column in the local section."  
  
"Hey!" Xander snapped at them, causing his friends to look at him with surprise.   
"I said that's enough. We have nothing left to do here, so let's go."  
  
Sharing looks like a group of kids lectured by their father, the men and women   
of Team Archangel promptly followed their leader's example, silently climbing   
into the two vehicles, whose engines quickly came to life before they drove off   
into the night.  
  
Then it started to rain again. Xander relaxed in his seat beside Michael and   
closed his eyes, trying not to think at all, just focusing on the almost-warm   
sound of the rain falling on the metallic frame of the car.  
  
"Let's go home," he whispered so low, that nobody heard him.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The silver Aston Martin DB7 Vantage stopped in front of the mansion's fence, and   
the driver's tinted window rolled down with nothing more than the whisper of the   
electric motor.  
  
A slender male arm came out from the car, clad in expensive black cashmere and a   
bronze ring on his finger, and gently pressed the call button of the intercom.  
  
"Yes?" a deep voice came through the speaker grill.  
  
The man driving the luxury British sports car gently leaned on the window frame,   
half-closing his ebony black eyes when a potent torch switched on, engulfing the   
car in a circle of light. "Damon Frost to see Mr..."  
  
The electric buzz and rusty creak of the main gate opening in front of him cut   
off his voice, making him look forward again, to the dark bulk of the ancient   
mansion.  
  
"Please come in, Mr. Frost," the voice said.  
  
Frowning at the whole scenario, a little over-dramatic for his taste, Damon   
Frost drove his Aston Martin across the threshold and to the building. He let   
out a snort of ironic amusement when the car's headlights illuminated the   
house's front face, and its overdone decorations and gargoyles.  
  
He parked in front of the main door and killed the engine, quickly getting out   
and running under the rain to the protective refuge of the large porch,   
shivering under his cashmere coat because of the chill and wet air of the night.  
  
He knocked on the large wooden door three times with the heavy knocker, which   
thundered on the empty halls of the mansion like a church bell.  
  
"For Pete's sake..." he growled.  
  
The door opened and Damon found himself face to face with one of the tallest men   
he had ever met, looking down at him as if he were some kind of bug and he was   
trying to decide whether to stomp him or not.  
  
Finally, after some moments of tense silence, the tall and black man stepped   
aside, inviting him in with a movement of his arm.  
  
"Mr. Frost," he simply said to him. "I'm Mr. Smith."  
  
With a slight raising of his sandy eyebrows, the shorter man stepped into the   
house, all the time observing his host out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Original name," Damon whispered in sarcasm, "did you get it at Anonymous 'R   
Us?"  
  
The black man pointedly ignored him and began to walk away with long, decided   
steps, not waiting to see if Damon followed him or not. Sighing, the shorter man   
did so, the two of them walking the seemingly endless dark hallways.  
  
Until they arrived at a large room presided over by an equally large fireplace,   
whose crackling fire seemed to be the only source of light and heat in the whole   
building.  
  
In front of the dancing flames, the almost shapeless figure of an old man in a   
wheelchair immediately captured his attention. His bent body seemed so old, so   
worn out that he wasn't able to calculate his age; for a second the man's blue   
eyes locked with Damon's black ones, and he would have sworn that the man was a   
thousand years old.  
  
"Welcome to my home, Mr. Frost," the old man greeted him with a voice that   
seemed to came from the interior of a tomb, waving with a hand to the   
comfortable-looking seat that was placed in front of him.  
  
Damon took off his coat and walked to the man, slowly sitting in front of him as   
his eyes moved almost at lightspeed, capturing all the details of his   
surroundings and companions in a second.  
  
"You may retire, Mr. Smith. Mr. Frost and myself will have a nice chat alone."  
  
Nodding sharply with his head, the large black man went out of the room, closing   
the two wooden doors behind himself. Then the old man turned his attention   
towards Damon, while his fingers played with one of his chess figures.  
  
"I thought you would be taller," he simply said.  
  
Damon gently raised one of his eyebrows, before answering. "Appearances aren't   
everything."  
  
The truth was, that his figure wasn't really impressive. A young man in his   
mid-twenties with sandy hair and slightly tanned skin, more attractive than   
handsome, proportionally weighted and built to his medium height.  
  
The only feature that stood out in his whole appearance were his eyes, so black   
that there was no difference between the pupil and the iris, cold and hard like   
the wing-cases of a beetle.  
  
Eyes that held no mercy or remorse. He had the eyes of a killer. "I prefer to   
rely on my other... abilities." he said.  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Before his lips had stopped moving, Damon had a fully automatic Beretta 93R in   
his right hand, its laser-sight painting a red spot on the old man's forehead.   
His cold expression hadn't changed in the slightest.  
  
The old man just smiled, never stopping his play with the figure that he had in   
his hands. "That's not going to be necessary, Mr. Frost."  
  
"I'll be the one to decide that," Damon observed, cocking the gun. "I want some   
answers."  
  
The old man nodded, with an open smile that showed his yellow teeth. "You want   
to know why you're here. You want to know why I've requested your special   
services."  
  
Damon relaxed a little in the seat, adopting a more comfortable position and   
crossing his legs, but never stopping to aim at the man with his gun.  
  
"I must admit that I'm curious about that," the gunman said. "When someone   
requests the services of my... employers, it's highly unusual they ask for a   
name in concrete. They just give the target's identity and the money, and they   
wait for the apple to fall from the tree, as it were."  
  
"And you want to know why I want you, and not anybody else."  
  
The younger man nodded slowly. "One of my business' main prerequisites is   
discretion; my employers aren't very happy to know that my name is... how shall   
I put it?" he frowned, as if he was making an effort to find the right words.  
  
He finally said, "Out in the open. That makes them feel insecure, and that   
leaves me in a very uncomfortable position. So," he said, slightly raising his   
weapon, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't splatter your brains all over   
this nice Persian carpet."  
  
If the old man felt some amount of fear at Damon's unsubtle threat, his wrinkled   
face didn't show it. "It's a very expensive carpet," he observed with a smile.  
  
Damon offered him an edged smile, and shrugged. "I'm not the one who's going to   
have to take care of the cleaning bill. And my patience is running short."  
  
Releasing a sigh that sounded like a rusty flute, the old man shook his head. "I   
hate to be so prosaic, but it's best to stick to terms you can understand."  
  
Damon looked at him through half-closed eyes, full of curiosity. "Such as?"  
  
"Money."  
  
The younger man smiled like a shark. "The love of which is the root of all   
evil," he whispered with a knowing smile. "I'm listening."  
  
"How much do you usually get paid for a job, Mr. Frost?" the old man asked,   
rolling his wheelchair away and around Damon's seat. "Say, $100,000? $200,000?"  
  
"More like $250,000 per target," he confirmed.  
  
"I'll pay you $500,000 if you just hear my proposal, another $500,000 more if   
you accept the job, and $1,000,000 more for each needed killing you have to   
commit during its execution," he simply stated.   
  
Damon's eyebrows shot up like a scalded cat and he finally uncocked the gun,   
hiding it under his jacket. "Now we're speaking the same language," he grinned   
from ear to ear. "Who do I have to kill? Literally speaking, of course."  
  
Rolling beside his seat, the old man placed the small chess figure in Damon's   
left hand, gently making him close his fingers around it.  
  
"That's the best part, Mr. Frost," he whispered in his ear, conceding him the   
dubious pleasure of his putrid breath. "Somebody I know you'd kill for free."  
  
Rolling away from him, the old man finally allowed him to take a look at the   
figure. The White King's Bishop was a handsome man in his early thirties, with   
short but thick hair and a charming smile. He wore a suit with a long   
trenchcoat, and carried a rapier in his right hand.  
  
Damon felt himself becoming breathless, as his heart pounded in his chest with   
the fast pace of a drum.   
  
"My, oh my..." he whispered, rolling the figure between his fingers to capture   
all the exquisite details in his retinas, and unconsciously beginning to smile   
with absolute delight.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	3. Part 3 of 5

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 3 of 5   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book I:  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers  
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD  
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer  
Brian Bosworth as Cecil  
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD  
  
and  
  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER TWO: My own private devil  
En route to Sunnydale, California. December 2, 2002. 12:40 a.m.  
  
If there's a God or any kind of justice under the sky  
If there's a point, if there's a reason to live or die  
If there's an answer to the questions we feel bound to ask  
Show yourself, destroy our fears, release your mask  
  
"Innuendo", Queen  
  
  
The highway was dark, wet and cold. The wipers of the Cadillac barely managed to   
clear the heavy coupe's windshield, making Michael drive with a little less   
tranquility than what he would have preferred.  
  
Quiet reigned inside the car, the rhythmic sound of the rain falling outside   
almost a balm to their troubled spirits.  
  
As usual, Spike, Kyle and Crystal had packed themselves into the Texan's   
off-road vehicle and Michael just could picture them, the bleached-hair vampire   
and the tall Texan exchanging puns and verbal blows, while the reserved witch   
tried not to look very bored at their apparent immaturity from the back seat.  
  
Taking a look in the rear-view mirror, the French Immortal could not help but   
smile at the sight of Rachel's sleeping figure in the back seat, using her hand   
as a pillow and her mahogany hair falling in soft locks around her beautiful   
face and shoulders.  
  
Shaking his head in amusement, Michael wondered, not for the first time, what he   
had done that had made him worthy of that woman's love. The only thing he was   
sure of was that he had never been so happy, had never had such a feeling of   
rightness as when he was in Rachel's arms, when they exchanged soft words of   
love and commitment in the darkness of their bedroom.  
  
Coughing and almost blushing at the images that came to his mind on that   
thought's trail, Michael felt like a moron, not able to hide the grin that had   
appeared on his face from ear to ear.  
  
"Pleasant thoughts?" Xander asked in a low voice beside him, smiling knowingly.  
  
Michael observed him out of the corner of his eye, and could not help but frown.   
With the course of the years, he had come to know the expressions on his   
friend's face well; from that slight raising of his right eyebrow when he didn't   
understand something, to the way he looked down when he was embarrassed, Michael   
had a complete knowledge of all of Xander's faces.  
  
Now, seeing the smile on his lips that didn't reach his dark eyes and the way he   
tried not to frown with little success, he understood that something really dark   
was inside him.  
  
"Is there a reason not to have them?" he asked with caution, testing the waters.  
  
Xander simply shrugged, and looked at the dark exterior of the car. "Someone   
left Heaven's dam open tonight," he observed, changing the subject   
not-very-subtly.  
  
Knowing that pressing him would be useless and that he would open up in his own   
time, the French Immortal let the subject drop, switching on the radio to a   
classic music station.  
  
Michael let Debussy's soft chords filled the interior of the car, and noticed   
how Xander took out a cell phone from the interior of his leather coat.  
  
The young vampire quickly dialed a number he knew by heart, and patiently waited   
until it was picked up a continent away.  
  
"This is Archangel Team Leader," he told the microphone, "the identification   
code is Delta-Foxtrot-One-Three. The Kobayashi situation has been handled. Zero   
civilian casualties, zero casualties on my team, all tangos..." he passed a hand   
through his dark hair, closing his eyes with a tired expression,   
"...eliminated."  
  
He waited a few moments in silence, while he listened to the phone. "No, just   
run the usual interference with the police and local authorities, I'll send a   
secure email tomorrow with the complete report." Without waiting for a response,   
Xander pushed the 'end call' button a little too violently, and hid the phone.  
  
"The burden of leadership, mon frère," Michael observed with an accomplished   
smile.  
  
Xander didn't answer him; he just leaned his temple on the cold glass of the   
window and closed his eyes, allowing the rocking movements of the car lure him   
to a restless light sleep.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"I just don't get it," Buffy said, tightening her jacket around her. "Even the   
vampires are smart enough to stay in their little holes on a night like this.   
What the hell are we doing here?"  
  
Angel looked down at her with a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes and hugged   
her, wishing he had some body heat to share with her so she would be a little   
warmer.  
  
"Cold?" he asked unnecessarily.  
  
"Cold. Wet. Bored," she pouted. "I wanna go home. Why can't we go home?"  
  
The souled vampire shrugged helplessly. "Sacred duty, Chosen One, blah, blah,   
blah..." She whined and childishly hid her face in the crook of his arm, making   
the vampire laugh. "Come on Buffy, it's not that bad."  
  
"It is," she disagreed. "It's like doubly bad, because we know positively that   
there are almost no vampires left in Sunnydale. Not after we kicked their undead   
asses last month."  
  
Angel just raised a dark eyebrow. It was true that after the whole de Rais   
debacle, the vampire population of Sunnydale had drastically decreased; but both   
of them knew that it was nothing more than a momentary respite.  
  
As long as there was a Hellmouth under the town, there would be vampires and   
other nasty things going bump in the night.  
  
It was just a matter of time, until the earth would move under their feet again.   
However, it was nice to have some quiet time for a change, even if it was short.   
  
"So?" the vampire asked.  
  
"So we're idiots to be searching for them, knowing that their undead asses are   
gone." Buffy crossed her arms. "Can we go home now? Or better," she looked at   
him seductively under her eyelashes, tracing a slow pattern on his silk-clad   
chest with her index finger, "we can go to your apartment and..." she let the   
idea trail off.  
  
The souled vampire felt his mouth part in an unwanted, but not unwelcome smile.   
He seemed to be doing that a lot recently. "And?" he asked a little huskily,   
smoothly taking her into his arms.  
  
She shrugged, sharing his accomplished smile. "I don't know. We could be...   
creative."  
  
"Creative, that sounds pretty good."  
  
They kissed slowly and lovingly, both of them knowing that, in spite of their   
wanting and their verbal play, they couldn't do much more than kiss and even   
cuddle a little. That there was a barrier that they couldn't cross, no matter   
how much they wanted to.  
  
They would spend the rest of the night in each other's arms, with the melancholy   
blanket of the lack of satisfaction of fulfillment covering them. But that was   
the choice they had made a long time ago, and they had to stick to it, even when   
it sometimes hurt like hell.  
  
And now they had a little light of hope to hold on to, more than ever.  
  
"Are you making any progress with Crystal?" she asked, once they had   
disentangled themselves and resumed their walk, protected from the thin,   
bone-drenching mist into which the rain had turned by Angel's black umbrella.  
  
The tall vampire sighed as they walked side by side, their arms locked. "We'd   
proceed faster if we had the help of somebody who actually spoke the language."  
  
"In other words, nope."  
  
He shook his head. "I don't know, Buffy. I'm beginning to think that it's   
nothing more than another dead end. I don't want to hope if it is only going to   
bring me... us pain," he corrected himself, remembering that he wasn't the only   
one affected by his curse, that she had sacrificed as much, maybe more, than   
himself. "Maybe I should give up and..."  
  
"Hey!" the Slayer stopped dead in her tracks and yanked at the fabric of his   
coat, making him face her in spite of their difference of heights. "We talked   
about this a long time ago, Angel, and we made a pact. We are in this together.   
If you fall I'll be there to help you rise again, if I get hurt you'll help me   
to heal. Everything I am..."  
  
He caressed her face, barely tracing her beautiful features with his cold   
fingertips, captivated by the inner strength that seemed to flow from her in   
almost palpable waves, by her fierce loyalty and love. "...Everything I'll ever   
be..." He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers before softly   
kissing her on the lips.  
  
"And you promised no more brooding," she added with a note of reprimand in her   
voice, stepping back to look at him.  
  
The souled vampire chuckled on her behalf. "Old habits die hard, and mine are   
really old."  
  
Shaking her head, the blonde Slayer took his arm again, resuming their walk.   
"Not that I want to change the subject, but do you have any idea of what Xander   
and the guys were up to?"  
  
Angel shrugged helplessly, a gesture that seemed almost awkward with his broad   
shoulders. "Last time I spoke with any of them, they seemed... I don't even know   
how to explain it. Like samurais, waiting for a war to begin. Even Spike was   
tight-lipped."  
  
She sent him a look of surprise. "We have to talk with them."  
  
"About?"  
  
"About everything. I so know that they're hiding something, and I don't like it   
at all."  
  
Now it was Angel's turn to look at her with a frown. "Buffy, don't you think   
you're being a little..."  
  
"What, paranoid?"  
  
He smiled crookedly. "You said it, not me."  
  
"Well, you know what they say, it's not paranoia if they're really out to get   
you."  
  
At that very moment the honk of a car horn was heard behind them and the couple   
turned around, momentarily blinded by the headlights of the vehicle, which   
slowly parked beside them.  
  
The blonde Slayer couldn't help but cringe when an unpleasant buzz shook her   
whole being for a second, until it transformed itself into a nuzzling sensation   
at the back of her head.  
  
Buffy and Angel immediately recognized Michael's black Cadillac and bent down   
beside the passenger's window, which was already rolling down, as Kyle's red   
Pathfinder kept on going, saluting them with a couple of honks. Buffy waved at   
it with a smile, before centering her attention on the dark-haired head that   
appeared in the window.  
  
"What's up, lovebirds?" Xander greeted them with an open smile. "Taking a walk?"  
  
"Hi guys," the Slayer took a look at the dark interior of the huge coupe. In the   
back seat Rachel looked half-asleep, while Michael smiled at her from behind the   
steering wheel. "You tell me, Xander. Where have you been?"  
  
The young vampire shrugged and tried to look at them innocently, failing   
miserably. "You know, here and there, knocking some heads, taking some names...   
pure routine."  
  
The Slayer raised a golden eyebrow, and stared pointedly at the French Immortal.   
"What do you say, Michael? Are you going to be a real gentleman, and gimme the   
truth?"  
  
Before he could even speak at all, Rachel leaned between the front seats, and   
amused gleam in her dark chocolate eyes. "You're asking a Frenchman to tell a   
woman the truth? Forgive me Buffy, but you're kinda being a little nave, my   
dear."  
  
Michael just looked at her, out the corner of his eye. "I'll remember that the   
next time you ask me if I think you've gained weight, ma chèrie."  
  
The brunette Immortal just slapped him on the shoulder, making him yelp and the   
rest laughed good-naturedly.  
  
"Anyhoo," Xander continued, "everything alright here? Nothing nasty going bump   
in the night?"  
  
"You mean besides the guys in Oz's new band?" Angel asked. "Not that we know   
of."  
  
Xander closed his eyes, and muttered a curse under his breath. "Damn! Oz was   
going to debut today, I forgot!" He looked at his friends with a helpless   
expression. "Was he mad? Check that, was Willow mad?"  
  
Letting out a short giggle, Buffy shook her head. "No. I'm sorry to say it, but   
she was too ecstatic even to notice. Both of them were, in fact. It's been a   
blast, everybody loved them."  
  
The young vampire frowned, scratching the back of his head. "Oh man, I'll talk   
with them tomorrow. But what about Cordy, how's she?"  
  
Buffy and Angel just exchanged a short but meaningful look, before looking back   
at him with a grimace on their faces.  
  
"That bad, huh?" Xander banged softly his head on the frame of the window,   
rolling his eyes. "Damn, I'm gonna pay for this, aren't I?"  
  
Angel patted his shoulder with understanding. "I'm afraid so, Xander."  
  
Michael practically leaned over Xander, pushing him back against his seat in his   
haste to take his head out the window. "Buffy, don't forget that you have   
training tomorrow after class, so bring your Kendo sword with you."  
  
"But tomorrow's Monday," she whined. "I'll be tired and cranky, can we do it   
some other day? Pleeeease?" She looked at him, batting her eyelashes and   
offering her best lost-little-girl impersonation.  
  
"Don't look at me with those puppy dog eyes, ma petite," Michael reprimanded   
her. "I'm not Giles, I'm not gonna fall for your..." She pouted, and looked   
unbelievably helpless.  
  
Michael grimaced, as if in pain. "Oh, sacrèbleu, you little manipulative brat!   
D'accord, d'accord! Come after class and we'll have a short session, then you   
can go out after that and do... whatever youngsters do these days, to... enjoy   
yourselves."  
  
"Now you're really beginning to sound like Giles," Rachel observed. Michael just   
reproached her with his dark blue eyes.  
  
Shaking his head and letting out a dry smile, Xander shook their friends' hands   
goodbye. "Well guys, I'll see you tomorrow, take care and don't do anything   
stupid, OK?"  
  
"Us?" Buffy looked truly offended. "When have we ever done something like that?   
Feel free not to answer that question."  
  
With a final snort, Xander waved them goodbye and the Cadillac drove away, its   
red taillights the only fathomable feature of the vehicle. Buffy and Angel   
looked at their retreating lights in silence, until even they were invisible in   
the darkness of the night.  
  
"What's up with them?" Buffy asked with a deep frown.  
  
Angel looked down at her with curiosity. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh, come on! Don't tell me you didn't notice how they changed the subject when   
I asked what they'd been doing?"  
  
The dark-haired vampire shrugged. "Truth is, I was too... distracted to notice   
anything much at all."  
  
It was Buffy's turn to frown. "Distracted? By what?"  
  
Angel sent her one of his patented dark looks. "By the fact that Xander and   
Michael smelled as if they had taken a bath in blood."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When Michael's Cadillac finally arrived a few minutes later at the huge   
warehouse that the group used as headquarters and for living purposes, they   
found the red Pathfinder still parked outside while its owner fumbled with the   
electronic controls of the main gate.  
  
With a grunt of pure annoyance, the French Immortal parked beside them and   
rolled down his side's window.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked Spike, who was leaning on the off-road vehicle with   
an expression of complete boredom on his pale face.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire shrugged. "The security controls are down... again.   
The Cowboy's tryin' to make a... what did he call it?"  
  
"An on-the-spot repair," Crystal offered, as bored as Spike.  
  
"Yeah, well, I'd call it a blotch but..."  
  
Michael and Xander shared a look and the young vampire got out the car with a   
tired grunt, quickly walking to where his Texan friend was working with his   
fingers sunk into a sea of electric wires and connections. "Kyle, what the   
hell...?"  
  
"Is going on?" he finished for Xander, while he cut two wires and connected them   
together. "I'll tell you what's going on. 'Install a security system,' you said.   
'We don't want any more vampires walking into our home as if it were theirs,'   
you said. Well, man, I did, and look where it's gotten us."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at the tall   
Texan with a patient expression. "This is because Michael got those Chinese   
systems instead the ones you wanted, isn't it?"  
  
"Hey! I can only work with what you get me, I don't do miracles. I asked for the   
new Texas Instruments Ch400 system but noooo, Mickey had to get this Yamasushi   
or whatever."  
  
A spark flew from the electric panel and Kyle yelped, shaking his hand and   
sucking his pained finger. "Now, red or blue?"  
  
"Red," Xander answered automatically, with a sigh.   
  
The tall Texan took a red plastic-covered wire, discarding the blue one, and   
made it contact with one of the boards, producing a new series of electric   
sparks and a foul smell of burnt plastic that almost made the two of them   
sneeze.  
  
Finally, the steel roller-door of the main gate rolled up with a rusty shake,   
and Kyle wiggled his eyebrows.  
  
"Et voila!" he exclaimed, pleased with himself before closing the panel. "I'll   
take a look at it tomorrow."  
  
"I'm just curious," Xander said, raising a dark eyebrow slightly, "but what   
would've happened if I'd said 'blue'?"  
  
Kyle shrugged with an innocent grin. "The whole place would have blown up into   
little pieces."  
  
The young vampire nodded slowly, not losing his cool façade. "I see... get those   
Texas Instruments systems. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning."  
  
The tall Texan mocked a military salute. "Aye-aye, sir!"  
  
"And don't call Michael 'Mickey'!" he exclaimed at his retreating back. Then,   
Xander shook his head in resignation.  
  
"What have I done to deserve this kindergarten?" he asked himself in a low   
voice.  
  
Some minutes later, after they took the vehicles inside and taken the trembling   
lift to the second floor, the colorful group of demon hunters was greeted by a   
barking sound and the figure of a large German shepherd, who happily jumped   
around them.  
  
"Hey, Elvis!" Rachel knelt down beside the large Alsatian, and petted him   
between his pointed ears, scratching his furry head and neck and making him   
whine delightfully. "How's my favorite boy?"  
  
Michael stopped beside them, and raised an eyebrow. "She never does that to me,"   
he observed.  
  
"Well, mate," Spike observed with a smirk, "you never whine that way, either."  
  
The two Immortals exchanged a weird look, before directing their gazes back at   
the bleached-hair vampire.  
  
Spike just shivered. "I so don't wanna know about it."  
  
With a smile, Rachel let the dog go away and the large animal quickly trotted   
towards Kyle, who patted his head before going in search of some food for him.  
  
Minutes later, after sharing a quick snack, Kyle and Crystal quickly said   
goodnight to the rest of their friends and went in search of their respective   
beds, intending on getting some hours of decent sleep before the morning.  
  
"What are you going to do, Spike?" Xander asked his blood-brother, seeing that   
the bleached-hair vampire was making a beeline back to the elevator.  
  
"Bloody hell, Xandman. Night's still young, I think I'll get meself a good dark   
spot in a bar, down one or two shots and find a nice señorita to..."  
  
"Spike..."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire gave him an edged smile, and winked at him. "You've   
turned me into a saint, mate, but not some bloody monk."  
  
Xander couldn't help but smile at the man that once had been his mortal enemy.   
"Just don't do anything I wouldn't, OK?"  
  
"What?" Spike looked really concerned. "That doesn't leave me many options. I   
mean, do you and the prom queen know any position apart from the missiona-"  
  
"Just get the hell outta here!" Xander playfully pushed him to the elevator, the   
two of them at the brink of laughter.  
  
=Good God,= he thought with amazement, =how much has the world changed that I   
need William the Bloody to lift my spirits?=  
  
But then, that was what friends were for, wasn't it? And speaking of friends...   
he went in search of Rachel and Michael, finding the both of them in the   
kitchen. The brunette Immortal was scrambling in the interior of the large   
fridge in search of snack, while her equally Immortal boyfriend hugged her waist   
from behind, placing soft kisses on her neck and making her giggle.  
  
Xander couldn't help but smile at them, remembering a time not so long ago when   
his two friends still tiptoed around each other, as if they were made of china   
instead of flesh and bone.  
  
=And blood,= he told himself, remembering that he wasn't the only one with a   
past full of inner wounds.  
  
"Michael, be quiet!" Rachel's giggling exclamation took him out of his momentary   
reverie and he plastered his cool façade on again, offering them a smile that   
didn't reach his eyes.  
  
"Hey Xander, are you hungry?" the brunette asked, spotting him. The young   
vampire could had sworn that she was blushing a little.  
  
"No, thank you," he rejected his friend's offer. "I just wanted to tell you good   
night."  
  
"Xander, mon frère," Michael got his attention when he was about to leave. "Is   
there anything you want to talk about?"  
  
Not being able to hide a little cringe of surprise, Xander turned around, losing   
himself for a second in the French Immortal's gaze of pure affection and worry.   
He managed a tight smile and shook his head.  
  
Yes, he needed to talk but, for once, Michael wasn't the one who could help him.   
  
  
"Maybe tomorrow," he whispered, while softly shaking his head. "Good night,   
guys."  
  
"Good night, Xander." Rachel looked at his retreating dark figure and waited   
until he disappeared in the private area, before turning around inside Michael's   
embrace to face him. "What's up with him?"  
  
The French Immortal shook his head, frowning slightly. "I don't know, mon amour.   
But he will come to us about it in his own good time."  
  
Rachel nodded and leaned on her lover's chest, trying not to worry too much   
about the young man, who was more like a younger brother to her than a mere   
friend.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Xander just took a quick shower and changed clothes, as if erasing all traces of   
that night's events from his body would do the same with his mind and soul.  
  
But, as always, it didn't work at all. He just knew he needed something more, he   
needed to purge himself, to clean that dark spot that the night's massacre had   
caused inside him.  
  
He got out of the shower and dried himself off with a fluffy towel, rubbing so   
hard that he managed to give his pale skin the crimson tone that the hot water   
hadn't achieved. He put on a pair of black silk boxers, dark blue jeans and a   
tight white T-shirt.  
  
He also put a simple pair of black sneakers over his socks and slipped a plain   
leather jacket over his shoulders, quickly collecting his watch, keys and wallet   
before getting out of the room.  
  
Xander walked in absolute silence inside the now darkened warehouse, his vampire   
eyes allowing him to see as if it were midday, and climbed up the stairs to the   
roof, opening the door at the end of it before stepping into the cold air of the   
night.  
  
Once on the roof, the young vampire took a long and unnecessary breath while he   
walked to the edge. Was he doing the right thing?  
  
He could wait till tomorrow and sleep off his worries, share them with the   
pillow. He was a grown man, he didn't need to...   
  
=Liar,= her voice said calmly inside his head, =you've become addicted.=  
  
With a self-knowing smile, Xander simply took a step forward and launched   
himself into the air, flying into the darkness as if he was some kind of giant   
bat.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Cordelia felt restless. She had spent the last few hours turning around in bed,   
in the apartment she shared with Buffy and Willow, either trying to resolve the   
mysteries of the wet spots on the ceiling or uselessly counting sheep to lure   
herself to sleep.  
  
But it was all for nothing, because her mind didn't want to stop coming back one   
time after another to the image of certain dark-haired vampire who happened to   
be her so-called boyfriend.  
  
She didn't want to admit it, either, but she was sick with worry for him. In the   
almost half-month since he had come back to Sunnydale, practically walking out   
from the past like a dark shadow, Xander had been first dark and brooding. Then   
as happy as she had ever known him to be, and then he was back to being dark and   
haunted again.  
  
And what bothered her was that she didn't know why, but she feared that it could   
be because of her.  
  
Xander had told her once that she was one of the things he had missed the most   
during his time far away from Sunnydale, and Cordelia feared that he had somehow   
idealized her during that time.  
  
Only to face now the truth of the fact that she was human, with her defects and   
ugly spots.  
  
She had also changed with the years, but sometimes she was still spoiled,   
self-centered, stubborn and not as smart as she would like to be. Had Xander   
realized now that they just weren't on the same level? Did he find her less   
appealing now?  
  
And the most important question, the one that she'd never had the guts to voice   
aloud or even recognize herself. Had he finally understood the fact that she was   
going to grow old and wrinkled, and then die – while he was going to remain   
eternally young and as handsome as a man could ever be?  
  
With a groan, she hid her face in the pillow, trying to chase those thoughts   
away. That wasn't who she was. She was Cordelia Chase, strong, secure of   
herself. And Xander knew and valued that... didn't he?  
  
The truth was that she knew practically nothing about the man that was her   
lover, and the owner of her heart. He wasn't the same Xander she had lost almost   
four years ago.  
  
Yeah, that was an understatement; even when they shared the most important   
traits, his fierce loyalty towards those he loved, his honesty and kindness, his   
bravery and lack of selfishness, the rest was completely different.  
  
Not only was the raw power of the demon lurking inside him, it was him, the   
human being, that had changed. He had some inner wounds that were still   
bleeding, that was for sure, and she wanted to reach out and help him to heal.  
  
But she couldn't do that while he protected himself inside an armor-suit of   
darkness and silence. OK, Cryptic Guy could be interesting, even sexy, but only   
for a short time.  
  
After that, it got boring first and then it could only drive them apart.  
  
Cordelia sighed. She was on an emotional roller coaster, up and down all the   
time. She wanted to comfort him and need comfort from him at the same time, she   
wanted to know his heart and soul as much as she knew his body, maybe even   
better.  
  
She wanted total commitment, and that scared her.  
  
She groaned, once more turning around under the covers.  
  
But, above all, she plainly wanted him. Right now. Right here.  
  
Once, a long time ago, she had wondered what it would be like to be with him.   
She had spent endless hours speculating about how the contact of his naked body   
against hers would feel, how it would be to get aroused by his touch.  
  
Now that she knew it first-hand, she had discovered that he was addictive.   
  
Now, once more, she was hopelessly in love with him. And it was that which   
scared her the most, because the last time she had known such intense feelings   
everything had been ripped away out of her hands.  
  
"Where the hell are you, Xander?" she asked her pillow in a low voice.  
  
As if it had wanted to answer her, a soft tap was heard and Cordelia jerked up   
in her bed, looking around herself with surprise, feeling her heart beating fast   
inside her chest.  
  
=He's here,= she thought to herself, not being able to avoid feeling like the   
heroine of a cheesy romance novel, about to be kidnapped from her own bedroom by   
a rude but gorgeous rebel. =But where...?=  
  
The tap was heard again, and this time the brunette young woman picked up the   
origin of the sound. It came from her window and she lost no time in getting out   
the warm interior of her bed and softly padding to it, opening the windowpane   
and letting the cold wind of the night blow into her room, making her long hair   
and night-gown flap around.  
  
And there he was, looking gorgeous beyond belief, a sheepish smile on his   
perfect lips and a rogue spark in his seemingly bottomless dark eyes.  
  
She took a look at his fitting jeans, the tight T-shirt that defined so well his   
muscled chest and the plain leather jacket that fell so wonderfully on his broad   
shoulders – and couldn't help but think to herself, =Yummy!!=  
  
Nevertheless, even when both of them knew perfectly well what was going to   
happen, she didn't want to give him the impression that she was easy, by any   
means.  
  
=If you want a little piece of lovin' tonight, you'll have to work for it,   
Xander.=  
  
"Hi," he simply greeted her, his hands hidden innocently behind his back.  
  
Cordelia leaned on the window frame, crossing her arms over her chest and   
quizzically looking at him through half-closed eyes. "Do you have any idea what   
time it is?"  
  
Xander made a show of looking at his watch before answering. "Almost a quarter   
past two in the morning." He looked at her with a devilish smile. "Did I wake   
you up?"  
  
Cordelia had to make a serious effort not to smile back. Why did he have to be   
so damn attractive? And when had he learnt to push all her buttons correctly?   
"Do you really expect me to be waiting for you, like some kind of damsel waiting   
for her white knight?" =And you can be damned, Xander. You know I am.=  
  
She then gave him her most charming smile. "Why shouldn't I let you spend the   
rest of the night out there?"  
  
He took his right arm from behind his back, showing her what he was hiding   
there. Rolling its stem between his fingers, he held a single daisy, that he   
offered to her with a smile.  
  
"I've brought flowers," he said, almost shyly.  
  
With a delighted smile, Cordelia accepted the offered gift, taking it with a   
swift caress of her slender fingers over Xander's hand. She smelled it and   
looked at her lover through her long eyelashes, finally giving him a slow and   
sexy smile.  
  
"In that case..." she leaned close to him and place her hand on the back of his   
neck, softly bringing their mouths together in a slow and deep kiss.  
  
When they finally broke apart, still rubbing their noses together as they   
exchanged soft and lingering kisses, Xander smiled widely, letting one of his   
hands rest on her hip and the other one cup her beautiful face.  
  
"Hmmm... not that I'm... complaining, but... your neighbors are going... to   
freak if they see me here... in the rain..." he said.  
  
Cordelia returned kiss for kiss, drinking from his mouth the dark and   
bittersweet taste of him, her fingers sliding into his slightly longish and wet   
hair, caressing his scalp. "Not to mention the fact... that you're floating...   
three floors off the ground..."  
  
"Yeah, that too," he broke away for a second to look down at the empty space   
under his feet, before looking back at her with a crooked smile. "Would you   
believe me if I told you that I'm floating on a cloud of happiness because of   
you?"  
  
Cordelia just giggled, practically dragging him into the room through the open   
window. "Come here, Mr. Suave."  
  
With a smile, Xander did as he was told without any reluctance on his part.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Later, when the fever of their lovemaking had subdued and their naked bodies   
were being warmed by the pleasant fire of their satisfied love under the covers   
of Cordelia's bed, she began to really look at him for the first time that   
night.  
  
He had his head pillowed on her flat stomach, hugging her sides as she slowly   
caressed his hair, marveling not for the first time of his silkiness. Men's hair   
was usually so unpleasantly greasy... but his face was hidden and she needed to   
look at him to read his soulful eyes, so she could know the real reason why he   
had come to her at such a late hour.  
  
Well, not that sex (amazing, mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex, pointed out an   
evil inner voice) wasn't a good reason, but she couldn't fool herself. She had   
felt it in the way he'd touched her tonight, in how he'd kissed and made love to   
her.  
  
He had been as tender and loving as always, but there had been something...   
desperate in their lovemaking tonight.  
  
"Why don't you come back here?" she softly asked, never stopping her caresses.  
  
Cordelia felt him softly shaking his head, his hair tickling the undersides of   
her breasts, before he answered in a little, almost childish voice.  
  
"No, I'm great down here." He snuggled closer to her, hugging her waist tighter   
and raising his knees almost to a fetal position under the covers.  
  
"It's soft, it's warm and it even smells good. I like it here," he concluded,   
patting her perfect belly and making her giggle.  
  
"I love you, Xander," she said out of nowhere. She just felt the need to express   
it aloud.  
  
He slowly propped up his head, looking at his lover with eyes that, in the   
twilight of the bedroom, were full of wonder and vulnerability. "Why?"  
  
She shook her head and shrugged helplessly, smoothing his hair away from his   
forehead in a tender gesture. "Because of sentimental reasons."  
  
That, at least, made him chuckle. "'Cause you're a good man, Xander. You're   
brave, kind, funny... and you have a great ass."  
  
She passed a fingertip slowly over his generous lips. "I love you because you   
make me want to be a better person."  
  
"Now you're plagiarizing Jack Nicholson," he observed, slightly raising an   
eyebrow but kissing her finger.  
  
"Well," she shrugged, "he got an Oscar."  
  
He shook his head in amazement and lay beside her, covering both their bodies   
with the sheets before taking her into his arms so they were spooned together,   
her flawless back against his broad chest.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked once they had spend some minutes in a   
deep silence only broken by the sound of their breathing.  
  
Xander sighed. "About what?"  
  
He felt Cordelia shrugging slightly. "About whatever's bothering you."  
  
"Is it that obvious?"  
  
She turned around in his embrace, facing him and setting her hazel eyes on his   
dark brown ones for a long moment before speaking. "I know you have secrets,   
Xander," she said, making his eyebrows shot up in surprise, "and I want to   
believe that you think you're guarding them for our own good, but..."  
  
He sighed. "But?"  
  
"But I don't want it, I don't want this to be like when we were teenagers. For   
you to hide something from me."  
  
He closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Some things are meant to be hidden away   
in the dark, Cordy."  
  
"Nonsense," she looked straight at him and it was as if she could see straight   
into his heart and soul, "and you know it. Lying is never a good policy when   
you're involved in a relationship."  
  
The young vampire passed a hand over his face with a tired expression, wondering   
why, if he had come to her to pour his heart out, he was so reluctant to do it   
now.  
  
Old habits die hard, it's difficult to teach new tricks to an old dog, and all   
that. But he wasn't old. And everything seemed as new to him as it would ever   
be.  
  
"I've done something tonight," he finally managed to murmur. "I killed some   
people."  
  
Cordelia felt her heart skip a beat but said nothing, giving him time and space   
to express it in his own way.  
  
"Not vampires, Cordy." His expression was somber and haunted, and Cordelia felt   
him shivering in her arms as if he was fevered. "Not a vampire, and not a demon.   
Not a horrible supernatural thing born from a nightmare, just simple, deranged   
human beings."  
  
He shook his head and hugged Cordelia tightly, burying her face in the crook of   
his neck. "Was it necessary?" she finally asked.  
  
Xander had to make a real effort not to snort. "Necessary? That's what is eating   
me up from the inside, Cordy." She looked at his eyes, and what she saw there   
chilled her to the bone.  
  
Xander was on the verge of tears. "I don't have the slightest idea," he said.  
  
"Xander," she fought with her own tongue to find the right words. Offering   
comfort had never been her strongest point but, for the man in her arms, she   
would do anything.  
  
"Whatever you've done, not only tonight but in all these years you've been away,   
whatever choices you've made, whatever path you've chosen to walk, I'm sure it's   
been the right one."  
  
He shook his head. "How can you be so sure?"  
  
Cordelia just smiled so warmly, that Xander felt his heart melting. "Because   
it's led you back to me, sweetheart."  
  
The young vampiric Immortal felt a wide, almost stupid grin extending across his   
lips and he brought Cordy's mouth to his, closing their lips together in a   
soul-deep kiss that, even when it seemed to last an eternity, was way too short   
for his liking.  
  
"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" she suggested, snuggling closer to him.   
"Things always look better in the light of day."  
  
Xander had to bite his lip not to laugh aloud. =If you only knew, Cordy...=  
  
But, nevertheless, he just followed her advice, rearranging his grip on her body   
so she'd be comfortable in his embrace. He hid his face in her mane, and let the   
soft perfume of her hair and the warmth of her body accompany him to sleep.  
  
"What are we going to do, Cordy?" he mumbled, before closing his eyes.  
  
Cordelia just caressed his hands, holding him. "Like you told me once, we'll   
just keep walking."  
  
Xander couldn't help but smile at this; but that night, like many others before,   
sleep didn't bring the rest and peace in his soul he yearned for.  
  
Rather, the nightmare of his past that, despite being real, was no less   
terrifying...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
INTERLUDE I: Only the good die young  
Sunnydale, California. February 12, 1999. 7:53 p.m.  
  
In the heat of the street of the city  
A young boy hides the pain  
And he walks so tall, trying to hang on  
But he knows he's going down again  
I know he's going down...  
  
"The hardest part is the night", Bon Jovi  
  
  
Looking at it in retrospect, everything could be summarized with the last stanza   
of that old poem written by George Herbert in 1651: 'so it is a kingdom was   
lost. All for the want of a nail'.  
  
Of course, in this case there wasn't any kingdom or nail, exactly: but it   
wouldn't have been far from the truth to say that everything would have turned   
out very differently, if he hadn't had the great idea of asking for anchovies on   
the pizzas that night.  
  
The doors of the library slammed opened violently as Xander Harris stormed off,   
clenching his fists in an effort to control his boiling rage, and leaving all   
his friends looking at his retreating back in mute astonishment.  
  
He could feel the flush on his face, and knew that his ears were probably red   
from the amount of blood that was rushing to his head.  
  
He couldn't remember ever being so angered or utterly embarrassed before, not   
even that time he had found himself in the middle of class wearing only his   
underwear. This time, it was even worse than the love spell incident.  
  
Damn it, it had established a new record on his shit-o-meter.  
  
The problem was, truth be told, that he wasn't quite sure why he was so angry.   
So furious, in fact, that he wanted to punch something, to hit the wall with his   
bare fists until they were broken and bleeding.   
  
Maybe, if he focused on the physical pain, the red veil of fury that was   
covering his eyes would vanish a little, the drumming sound of his pumping heart   
would fade in his ears and he could think straight once more.  
  
=That,= her voice said inside his brain with the same mocking tone she had used   
moments before, =would be nice, but only if you could actually do such a thing.=  
  
"Shut up!" he practically screamed, pressing the palms of his hands against his   
temples, trying to mitigate the deep piercing pain in his head.  
  
His voice echoed along the empty halls of Sunnydale High, and Xander had to make   
an effort to calm down a little. He needed to cool down before he made some   
stupid mistake, some irreparable stupidity.  
  
He turned around, and found the hallway as empty as it had been when he had   
stormed off out of the library. No one had come after him. No one had cared.  
  
He turned around again, and faced the school's exit door. And turned once more.  
  
=OK,= he told himself. =Cool down, boy. Breathe deeply. That's it. You're making   
it, Xandman.=  
  
He could go back, enter the library, face them and tell them... tell them...   
tell them what? That he was sorry? Sorry for what?  
  
For God's sake, he just liked anchovies on his pizza!! =Is that a sin or   
something now?=  
  
With a sigh, Xander leaned on the nearest locker, pressing his forehead against   
the metallic door, letting its cold surface soothe his burning skin.  
  
So he had wanted anchovies on his pizza and had asked for them – was it his   
fault that the guy at the takeout hadn't gotten the message right, and put   
anchovies on all the pizzas? Hell, all they had to do was remove the damn fishes   
and eat the rest of the meal!!  
  
But no, they had to make jokes about it, make jokes about him. One or two he   
could understand, wasn't he Sir Quips-A-Lot after all? But then they had grown   
bolder, more personal.  
  
And then she had said it, the words slipping from her lips so smoothly that he   
hadn't understood their meaning until they had settled into his brain.   
'Sometimes I think you can't do anything right...'  
  
Cordelia Chase had said those words. Words that soon enough, she would regret   
for the rest of her life.  
  
Xander had been speechless for a second, before his slow-working brain was able   
to conjure up the right response. And when it did, even he had been surprised by   
it.  
  
"Bitch."  
  
It hadn't been the word itself, but the coldness and the venom his voice had   
carried in the inflexion. There had been one second of absolute silence, in   
which the flight of a fly would have been heard.  
  
And then, all hell had broken loose.  
  
The jokes had turned into insults, the strong words shouts of recrimination   
until both of them had forgotten where they were, forgotten even the fact that   
they weren't alone.  
  
And it hadn't been one of their usual and childish verbal matches, where they   
could make up with just a kiss and a make-out session in the nearest utility   
closet.  
  
No, this time it had been serious. For the first time, it had been personal,   
they had wanted to hurt each other, and had aimed at their respective weakest   
parts. They had gone for the heart, and they had drawn blood.  
  
"Self-absorbed brat."  
  
"Good-for-nothing loser."  
  
"Slut."  
  
"Bastard."  
  
Xander felt the words, both hers and his, carved with fire onto his soul, still   
burning him. Breaking him.  
  
They say that passion is the most powerful fuel, that it can raise you up to   
Heaven or take you down into Hell; that its fire can melt the coldest of hearts,   
and burn the kindest of souls.  
  
Well, if it was passion that was breaking his heart in two right then, Xander   
Harris didn't want to know anything about it.  
  
It hadn't been entirely her fault, of course. At least, not at the beginning.   
She couldn't know the meaning that those exact words had for him, how they   
constituted the knife that pierced his heart in a wound that couldn't heal.  
  
She had no way to know that that precise sentence, 'you can't do anything   
right', was the same one that his father used to let him know how much of a   
disappointment he was. No good at school. No good at sports. No good at anything   
at all.  
  
She couldn't know, because he hadn't told her. He hadn't told anybody.  
  
Xander felt the rage boiling inside of him once more, this time directed not   
only at her, or his friends, nor even his parents. This time, as many other   
times before, it was directed against himself. At his uselessness, at his   
clumsiness, at his stupidity.  
  
'Good-for-nothing loser'. Four words that defined him to a T.  
  
This time, when his growing fury reached boiling point, Xander didn't control   
it, he didn't even try. He just concentrated it in only one point and let it   
discharge through his arms when he punched the locker's door with all his   
strength.  
  
It hurt, but it also felt damn good. So he punched it again, and again, and once   
more until he finally felt his brain disconnecting from any kind of rational   
thought as his fists fell one time after another on the door, folding the thin   
metal and filling the empty hallway with the clanks of the hits.  
  
He didn't even noticed he was crying, until after he slightly broke away from   
the locker to repeatedly kick it until the door was hanging from only one of its   
hinges. It was slowly rocking with a chirping sound, as he stepped back and felt   
the sting of the tears burning his eyes, tracing wet paths down his cheeks.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing!?!" a incredulous voice asked near him.  
  
Xander's head jerked up in surprise, and found himself almost face to face with   
the last person he wanted to see right then. Well, the last person after a short   
list composed of his girlfriend, friends and parents. Oh, and that lady from the   
cafeteria, the one with the weird bulging eyes and the greasy hair.  
  
After all of them, Principal Snyder was the worst person to talk to when you   
were in a state of deep emotional turmoil. Not to mention the fact, that he had   
just been caught vandalizing school property.  
  
The dark-haired boy passed a hand over his face, and sighed deeply. =Now you've   
done it good, Xander,= he told himself, =the shit-o-meter's gone off the   
scale...= "Principal Snyder..." he just acknowledged him.  
  
The school principal just looked at him with his little troll eyes for a second,   
before bringing a hand to his right ear as if he was trying to hear something.  
  
Xander looked around, puzzled. "What...?"  
  
"Quiet!" the shorter man ordered sharply. "Can't you hear it?"  
  
Xander just raised an eyebrow, too tired to play the principal's little mind   
games. "Hear what?"  
  
"The sound of your academic career being flushed down the toilet, Harris,"   
Snyder said with a harsh tone. "Now let's see," he began counting with his   
fingers, "being on campus during non-academic hours..."  
  
"I was just helping Mr. Gil-" Xander cut him off, fighting to find a suitable   
excuse.  
  
"Shut up, Harris!! I haven't finished yet." The principal continued his   
recollection of Xander's sins. "Vandalizing school property, opening another's   
student's locker, probably with the idea of stealing its contents..."  
  
"I wasn't doing any such thing!!" Xander protested with indignation. He could be   
a lot of things, but he wasn't a thief. Well, except that time when he had   
robbed an anti-tank missile from an army depot, and stolen medical files from a   
hospital... but that was different, there had been lives at stake.  
  
"Well," Snyder continued unfazed, "that is what's going to figure in my report   
about this little... affair. And that's all that'll matter in the end, don't you   
think?"  
  
He brought his face close to Xander's and, in spite of the difference of   
heights, the dark-haired boy felt overwhelmed by the older man. "I'm tired of   
you, Harris. Of all of you. You think you can walk these hallways as if they   
were yours, go wherever you want, do whatever you please, don't you?"  
  
Xander, maybe for the first time in his life, really listened to the man. And,   
not with little surprise, he felt something lurking under his words and menacing   
tone. There was madness there, and pure evil.  
  
He felt his mouth go dry, and finally understood that Principal Snyder was   
something more than an annoying little troll, because he was sincerely and   
completely insane.  
  
Because only a mad person could project the amount of hate he perceived right   
then, coming from the older man.  
  
"But that's over, you little shithead," he continued, not caring about the   
expression on Xander's face. "I have a list, it's a short one with the names of   
those whose time is almost over. And do you know whose name figures at the top   
of it?"  
  
Xander swallowed a knot that had formed in his throat and, as he had many times   
before, tried to conceal his fear behind a layer of sarcastic humor. "Do I get   
three guesses, or do I have to pick it right the first time?"  
  
Snyder just ignored him. "It's your name, Harris. Yours, and that little blonde   
whore you're always following around like a lapdo-"  
  
Snyder didn't know where it came from and, if the truth be told, neither did   
Xander. The only thing he could remember was the word 'whore' coming from the   
little troll's mouth and, a millisecond later, Xander's fist was smashing into   
his nose.  
  
There was a sound of broken bones in the hallway.  
  
"Oh, damn it!" Xander exclaimed, shaking his pained hand. Obviously, it hadn't   
been a great idea punching the locker. Big surprise, his knuckles were ragged   
and bloodied.  
  
Snyder stumbled backwards with a priceless expression of surprise on his face,   
and finally fell to the floor flat on his ass. They looked at each other for an   
endless second.  
  
Then Snyder brought his hand to his nose, and took a look at the blood that was   
matting his fingers with astonishment. "You are expelled!!" he exploded.  
  
A myriad number of thoughts passed through Xander's mind at that very moment, as   
he looked incredulously at his own fist, the same one that had hit his high   
school principal's nose barely moments ago.  
  
=I won't graduate! What am I going to tell my parents? I'm expelled! Loser! No   
graduation! What am I gonna do now? What am I going to tell Cordy? What are they   
gonna think? What...?=  
  
It was as if all the voices of the people who mattered to him, were speaking at   
the same time. All of them reproaching him, for his stupidity. Cordelia's,   
Willow's, Giles', Buffy's... =Stupid, stupid, stupid...=  
  
But then, very slowly, a new voice made its way above them, until it could be   
heard loud and clear.  
  
It was his own voice.  
  
=No,= it said, =don't listen to them. They're not the voices of your friends,   
all of them are nothing more than the voices of your own insecurities.=  
  
It was true, of course. Had he done something bad? Maybe a little excessive, but   
that bastard had threatened his friends, and that was something he wasn't   
inclined to tolerate.  
  
=Well,= said the voice once more, =if you've come this far, why don't you go the   
whole nine yards?=  
  
Even before he knew what he was doing, Xander picked Snyder by the lapels of his   
cheap suit and brought him to his feet, smashing his back against the line of   
lockers.  
  
The troll started, "What the hell do you think you're-?"  
  
"Shut up!!" Xander exclaimed, surprising even himself with the strength of his   
voice. "Now it's my turn, asshole." He saw the expression of surprise – and even   
fear – in the principal's eyes, and allowed himself the pleasure of a long, evil   
grin.  
  
"Listen carefully, Snyder," he spat out the name as if it left a foul taste in   
his mouth. "I don't care what you do to me, but if you ever dare to pull any of   
this crap on any of my friends, like you did last summer with Buffy, I swear to   
you that I'll... I'll..."  
  
"You'll what?" Snyder felt some of his confidence coming back, at the apparent   
indecision of the youngster. "Are you going to... threaten me with physical   
harm?"  
  
Xander looked hard at him. "Threats? Physical harm? No, I don't think so. I will   
kill you, Snyder." He pushed the shorter man once more against the lockers. "And   
I'm not speaking figuratively."  
  
"You wouldn't dare..." The little troll didn't look too sure of his own words.  
  
Xander just chuckled, almost maniacally. "Wouldn't I?" He loosened his grip on   
the man's lapels, slowly smoothing the wrinkles on his jacket.  
  
He continued, "I think you know what happens in this town, Principal Snyder.   
There are homicides every night, accidents, missing persons... people get found   
completely drained of blood, devoured corpses turn up on the school campus...   
tell me, who would even miss a middle-aged high school principal like you? The   
students? The police? Tsk, tsk..."  
  
Xander shook his head slowly, before laying his hand flat on the man's chest and   
pushing him one last time against the lockers. "Consider yourself warned," he   
advised Snyder, before beginning to walk away from him to the exit of the high   
school.  
  
=God,= he thought to himself with a shiver, =I never thought that I'd have to do   
an Angelus impersonation like that!=  
  
"You're still expelled!" Snyder shouted at his back, trying to regain some of   
his dignity.  
  
"Look how much I care," Xander muttered between clenched teeth, opening the   
double main doors of the school and walking into the cool air of the night.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
With his hands deeply hidden into the pockets of his jacket and with his   
breathing leaving a soft cloud of steam in the chill February night behind him,   
Xander wandered the streets of Sunnydale, without real destination or purpose.  
  
=I've just been expelled,= his mind didn't cease repeating. =And to top it off,   
I've also just threatened to kill the principal. Oh God, I'm in deep shit!=  
  
Well, he had to admit though that for once, it had felt good to be the thug   
instead of the victim, it had been almost fun. The expression on Snyder's face   
when he had smashed him against the lockers... and yet, the fact that he had   
been expelled still remained. =Great way to finish a great day, Xander!=  
  
He grunted to no one in particular and kept on walking, not bothering to check   
where his feet were taking him at all. What could he do?  
  
Telling his parents was way out of the question. Even if they had cared, it   
would only drive them to a fight and, quite frankly, he was tired of shouting.   
He was plain tired, period.  
  
He felt the need to talk to somebody, but who? It wasn't as if he had a lot of   
friends, and the few he had were really busy trying to save the world without   
his help, and so on.  
  
=Cordelia?= As much as he wanted to call her, to ask excuses, to do anything she   
wanted to get back in her good books again - assuming, of course, he had ever   
truly been in them -, he knew it was too soon.  
  
She would still be mad at him and frankly, with his own temper, they would only   
end up fighting again.  
  
No, he had to wait till the next morning at least; he'd let her, and himself,   
sleep the anger off and then call her. Just a phone call. Something to hear her   
voice.  
  
Damn, he was already missing her.  
  
When had that happened? When had Cordelia Chase, dreaded prosecutor of the ugly   
and the unfashionable, turned into the single most important person of his life?   
He couldn't tell.  
  
He could only say that he had understood it the moment Drusilla and her vamps   
had attacked them, while Willow was performing Angel's soul restoration ritual.   
He had a broken arm, Giles was being taken away, Willow was under a fallen   
bookcase, unconscious, maybe even worse... and the only thing he could think   
about, was getting Cordelia the hell away from there.  
  
It wasn't realistic to expect a long-term relationship with her. They were too   
different, too opposed on too many things and their characters were too volatile   
when they were together. Yeah, they had passion, but was that enough?  
  
The only thing he was sure of was that his life would be very, very sad and gray   
without her by his side.  
  
=Giles?= No, he didn't want to see the same expression of disappointment on his   
face that was on his father's every time he looked at him. For some reason, he   
felt that it would hurt more seeing it on the British Watcher's face.  
  
=Willow?= No, there was still a strange air between them since the Homecoming   
Dance, as if there were something left unspoken.  
  
Of course, he knew what it was – the almost-kiss they had shared, the moment,   
the... for lack of a better word, the thing.  
  
Once more, Xander closed his eyes and grunted. It was as if he... he bit his   
tongue so he wouldn't voice his thoughts, only to discover that his brain didn't   
need it to complete them... couldn't do anything right.  
  
Maybe it was true, after all. He had been there, impeccably dressed in his tux,   
and Willow had been there too, so beautiful with her dress that he had been   
almost breathless. They had talked, they had laughed, they had danced, there had   
been that unmistakable spark of chemistry, and then...  
  
Then he had stopped, when there was nothing more than a few millimeters of hot   
breath between their mouths.  
  
The thought, unbidden, almost unwelcome in his brain, had pierced through thick   
layers of hormone-filled sensations and hit him on the head like a hammer. =How   
would you feel if it was the other way around?=  
  
Time stopped and, like in those old cartoons he used to watch on TV, he'd seen   
little XanderAngel and XanderDevil on each of his shoulders, talking to him.  
  
"Go for it, man," XanderDevil had urged him, playing with his red pitchfork.   
"Look at her, she's gorgeous and she wants it. You know she does. And so what if   
you kiss her? You said it once yourself, didn't you? It's just a kiss, it   
doesn't mean all that much."  
  
XanderAngel had shaken his head though, his halo dancing over his head. "How'd   
you feel if it was the other way around?" he had insisted. "How'd you feel if   
you discovered Cordelia kissing Oz?"  
  
At this point, both Xander and XanderDevil had looked at him, raising the same   
eyebrow. XanderAngel had just shrugged his winged shoulders. "OK, bad example.   
But what about one of those jocks from the football team? You know the type,   
with all those bulging muscles, their broad shoulders and their..."  
  
XanderDevil had looked at him with quizzical eyes. "What?" XanderAngel had   
asked.  
  
The little devil had then shaken his head in resignation. "I knew that all those   
years wearing those white robes wouldn't do anything good for your sexual   
tendencies."  
  
XanderAngel had then simply looked at Xander. "The thing is, Xander... if you're   
really gonna take this step, you should first figure your own feelings."  
  
And with that, both representations of his subconscious self had vanished in   
twin puffs of smoke. He had come back to the present to find an expectant Willow   
waiting for him, with a look of fear in her wide sea-green eyes, and he had   
understood that she was experiencing the same inner turmoil as himself.  
  
They both had people in their lives that had come unexpectedly and, in Xander's   
case, a little unwelcome, but who they cared for a lot. But they had a story in   
common, and a friendship that couldn't be ignored. They connected, and most   
people would say that they were meant for each other.  
  
So, what were they going to do about it?  
  
In the end, there hadn't been any real choice possible.  
  
"I love you, Willow," he had said, interlacing his fingers with hers and taking   
a step back, not able to hold her stare.  
  
"But you're not in love with me," she had completed, taking her eyes from him.   
He had shaken his head. "You're in love with Cordelia."  
  
What had been expected as an accusation had come in a tender, knowing voice, and   
he hadn't been able to do anything more than stare back at her for a long   
moment. "You're not mad at me?" he had finally asked in a childish voice.  
  
"No," she had answered, shaking her head, but letting a few tears run down her   
cheeks nevertheless. "For the first time I've understood how much I love Oz,   
and... how much I'm over you."  
  
He had grimaced in pain, and she had chuckled. "I figure we both needed some   
kind of closure for what we never had."  
  
He had nodded and then hugged her tightly, softly kissing her on the forehead.   
"I'll go now," he had said, breaking apart from her. "I'll try to find Cordy   
and..." He had shrugged helplessly.  
  
But she had then smiled. "Will you talk to her about...?"  
  
"About what?" he had shaken his head. "Nothing happened."  
  
Willow had sighed, and looked as his figure retreated away. "Right. Nothing   
happened."  
  
But something had happened, and both of them knew it. In a second, both of them   
had managed to do what the Hellmouth hadn't been able to do in almost three   
years. They had grown up. Matured.  
  
Back to the present, Xander kicked a can and sent it spinning in the street,   
sighing deeply. His thoughts drifted far away once more, this time towards   
Cordelia.  
  
Cordelia.  
  
Flawless tan skin, perfect smile, bright hazel eyes, lustful lips, endless   
legs... Xander sighed once more, feeling his ears burn as a certain part of his   
anatomy came to life.  
  
He shook his head, trying to cool off a little, only to finally notice where he   
really was. Cypresses, weeping willows and hundreds of tombstones around him. He   
was in a cemetery, in front of a grave. And not just in any cemetery, not in   
front of just any tomb.  
  
He knelt down by the headstone, and let his fingers trace the nooks and contours   
of the name carved on the cold surface of the stone.  
  
Beloved Son  
Jesse Aaron Richards  
1981-1996  
  
Xander sighed and sat cross-legged in front of the grave, slowly removing the   
fallen leaves and all the impurities that covered his childhood friend's final   
resting place. He remembered the day of the funeral, when Jesse's parents had   
decided to abandon all hope of ever finding their son and buried an empty   
casket, just so they could move on.  
  
He had been standing there, unable to do or say anything at all but just wanting   
to shout to them all that his friend was dead, that he had killed him. That he   
had stabbed him in the chest with a stake, because he had been turned into a   
vampire. And that he would give his life if that would bring him back.  
  
"It's been a long time, pal," Xander said, knowing that there was no body under   
the stone, but finding it a good a place as any to talk with his departed   
friend. "But I've been busy, fighting the forces of darkness and y'know, doing   
that heroic thing about being one of the good guys."  
  
He bit his lower lip, and closed his eyes tight. "I don't know how to say this,   
but I heard it hurts less if you take off the Band-Aid with a yank, so I'll be   
blunt: I'm dating Cordelia."  
  
The teen sighed once more, and raised his dark eyes to the equally dark skies.   
"I know, I know... I, Alexander Lavelle Harris, King of Cretins, Treasurer of   
the 'We Hate Cordelia' club and Master of Lameness, am dating Cordelia Elizabeth   
Chase, Ice Maiden, Head Cheerleader and Queen Bitch of Sunnydale High."  
  
He snorted, shaking his head in amazement. "Surprised? Yeah, can't blame ya.   
Well, my friend, it gets worse: I'm in love with her." The high school senior   
nodded sheepishly. "Truly, madly and deeply in love with her. It's funny if you   
think about all those times I pestered you about it, 'cause you were...   
infatuated with her."  
  
Xander breathed in his hands, and rubbed them together. It was beginning to get   
really cold out there. "Y'know, I figure that you were able to see the real her   
before any of us could, or something. And no, before you ask, I haven't come   
here to rub it in your face – it's just that... I need help. I need help 'cause   
I think I've screwed it up, man. Like, I've messed up big time."  
  
Xander stood up and stretched, loosening the knots in his tired body. "I know I   
should learn to be more patient with her, not to take everything she does or   
says as something personal. That we both have some rough edges that we gotta   
smooth over before we fit together... perfectly," he explained, interweaving the   
fingers of his two hands together as if demonstrating, then he looked at the   
headstone with a lopsided grin.  
  
"And don't look at me like that, Jesse. I'm not talking about that, we haven't   
gone that far... yet."  
  
"That's a shame," a feminine voice said behind him, making him turn around with   
wide-open eyes. "It's such a waste to have a body like yours, and not take   
advantage of it... I don't understand what the heck Cordelia is thinking."  
  
Xander felt his mouth going dry, and his heart beating faster inside his chest.   
He had recognized the voice the moment it had begun to speak, and he knew it   
could only mean trouble.  
  
"Faith," he said with a quivering voice, as the former vampire Slayer came out   
of the shadows and into the soft circle of light provided by the moon.   
Automatically, his hands reached for the cross and the stake hidden inside the   
pockets of his jacket, feeling slightly reassured when he felt the rough contact   
of the wood against his skin.  
  
"Where've you been? We've spent the last few days searching for you. Buffy was   
worried..."  
  
"Buffy is always sooo worried..." Faith didn't look straight at him as she began   
to walk between the headstones, letting her fingers dance over their cold   
surfaces as if they were some kind of resting animals that she was petting.   
"That girl needs to loosen up a little, don't you think?"  
  
She finally raised her eyes to his, and Xander swallowed with difficulty the   
knot that had formed in his throat. He was beginning to be chilled to the bone,   
and not precisely because of the cold night air.  
  
When he understood that, bit by bit, she was closing the distance that separated   
them, Xander gripped the cross inside his pocket, seriously tempted to take it   
out.  
  
"And that boyfriend of hers, tsk, tsk..." she shook her head. "Do you know what   
dating a corpse does for a girl's social life?"  
  
"Faith, I know you're confused," he managed to splutter, "and probably angry,   
but..."  
  
Her head jerked up, and Xander found much to his dismay that the only thing that   
separated him from her spandex-clad body was barely a meter of thin air. "Do you   
know? Do you really know?"  
  
Xander licked his lips nervously. "I figure I don't."  
  
She shook her head, making her brown locks swirl. "Yeah, you don't." She   
extended her hand towards Xander's face, and caressed his brow and the line of   
his cheeks with her fingertips.  
  
The dark-haired boy had to make an effort not to shiver under her cold touch.   
"But you should, Xander. Out of all of them you're the closest to me, the only   
one that can understand me."  
  
Xander took a step back, distancing himself from her and waving a hand between   
them. "Uh, let's just keep a safe distance, OK? It's always a good idea when   
you're talking... or driving... or whatever."  
  
Faith shook her head, disappointed. "Xander, don't try the sarcasm on me,   
please. We both know it's nothing more than a defense mechanism." She took a   
step towards him, and Xander quickly put Jesse's headstone between them as a   
makeshift barrier.  
  
"Faith," he tried to reason with her, beginning to feel really scared, "you need   
help, and we can give it to you. We're your friends, I'm your friend."  
  
"I know you are, Xander," she smiled, and her face beamed in the darkness of the   
night. "That's why I've come to you."  
  
Xander seriously wished he could kick his own butt, the moment Faith's face   
initiated its transformation and jumped at him over the headstone with a roar   
coming from her lips.  
  
The dark-haired boy struggled to take the cross out of his pocket, but it was   
entangled in the fabric and he wasn't able to take it completely out before   
Faith landed on his chest. She made him fall under the weight of her body, and   
the crucifix slipped away from his grasp.  
  
Xander let out a grunt of pain as he felt Faith's knees pressing down his chest,   
with the whole force of her vampiric strength, choking the air out of his lungs.   
The vampire Slayer, now a vampire, grabbed his wrists and kept them pinned   
against the ground. Xander struggled in her grasp, trying to get himself free   
but to no avail.  
  
"Faith!" he grunted, when her legs slipped from his chest to straddle his torso.   
At any other moment, he would have even felt a non-small amount of excitement.   
"What are ya doing?!"  
  
"I thought it was pretty obvious." The vampiress tilted her head to one side and   
smiled, her game face full of pointed fangs. "I'm going to offer you a gift you   
won't be able to reject."  
  
Xander clenched his teeth, swallowing a shout of pain when her razor-sharp claws   
dug in the tender flesh of her wrists.  
  
"Newsflash, sweetheart," he sputtered, resolved not to show her how scared he   
really was. "I was already offered that gift once, and I rejected it."  
  
Faith freed his left hand, and Xander lost no time in searching for his cross.   
"This time, you won't have that chance."  
  
Xander's hand closed around the wooden cross, but before he could even think of   
raising it to her face, her fist fell, punching him hard right on the jaw.  
  
"This time," he heard while everything went blank around him, "you'll beg for   
it."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
There are different kinds of darkness. There's the one when you're comfortably   
lying in your warm bed, during those pleasant moments when you feel your body   
about to peacefully enter into slumber.  
  
And then there's the kind when you're walking on a lonely street at night,   
accompanied only by the sound of your shoes on the wet asphalt; the feeling of a   
thousand strange eyes on you, following each one of your steps.  
  
They're just not the same.  
  
Ever since he had met Buffy Summers, Xander had learnt to distinguish them, to   
know when the darkness was alive, creeping towards you over every surface,   
awaiting for the moment to jump over you and take you into its deadly embrace.  
  
As he slipped back into consciousness that night, he knew that the darkness   
surrounding him was one of those.  
  
That, once more, he was in deep trouble.  
  
The teen shook his head to clear his foggy brain, and as his nostrils filled   
with the pungent smell of the salty seawater, he didn't need a big leap of faith   
to deduce that Faith had taken him to somewhere near the docks.  
  
=Somewhere dark and wet,= he observed, taking a slow look around himself. He   
couldn't see very much anyway, his visual range was reduced to the weak circle   
of light provided by a small bulb hanging naked from its electric cord, that   
bathed the few items inside its sphere of action in a soft yellow glow.  
  
If he closed his eyes and concentrated a little, he could felt some kind of   
rocking movement as if he was being lured to sleep, and the soft sounds of the   
seawater bathing a metallic skull.  
  
=A ship,= Xander thought, opening his eyes again. He was in the cargo bay of a   
ship.  
  
There were boxes, the kind used for packing, marked with foreign letters on   
their wooden surfaces that his untrained eyes couldn't decipher, even though   
they looked sort of Russian to him.  
  
There was a little table, fragile in its general appearance and with its surface   
covered by a dirty blanket that could have been white once, but now it looked   
more like the color of an orange once you've forgotten it for a month in a   
corner of your kitchen.  
  
And, of course, there was Faith.  
  
She was between him and the table, her back to him and her hands leaning on the   
dirty blanket. She was still, almost as immobile as a statue. Xander wished he   
could look at her face, have some clue of what she intended to do; but she   
remained quiet, seemingly ignorant of his current state of consciousness.  
  
Xander took advantage of Faith's unawareness to check himself out. That was when   
the bad news began.  
  
He was on his feet, tied to an X-shaped wooden cross with what seemed like tight   
metallic wires around his wrists and ankles. He checked his bonds, only to find   
that they had been conscientiously knotted; any effort on his part to get them   
off, would only make them dig deeper into his flesh.  
  
Xander stifled a curse between his clenched teeth and licked his lips, grimacing   
when his tongue passed over a deep cut on his lower one, where the former   
vampire Slayer had punched him.  
  
It felt swollen, and he figured that it was probably a nice shade of purple by   
now; but, after carefully working his jaw with a rotating motion, he was   
appeased by the fact that there were no broken bones, although one of his   
premolars seemed a little loose.  
  
=Great, now I'll have to go to the dentist.= He had to make an effort not to   
snort.  
  
And to top it all off, he was practically naked. His jacket, sweater, undershirt   
and khaki pants had vanished, probably gone to the same place as his shoes and   
socks, leaving him only clad in his plain white boxers.  
  
=Well,= Xander thought thankfully, =at least I wasn't wearing my 'Happy   
Valentines' shorts.=  
  
He frowned, trying to think of a way to escape from this situation with his skin   
intact. He would also like to keep the little dignity he had left – but, all in   
all, he preferred his skin over his dignity any day.  
  
=What would Buffy do in my place?= She would probably insult her enemy, making   
him so mad that he would spend an unnecessarily long time explaining his evil   
plans, giving her both time to struggle with her bonds and the Slayerettes to   
find her.  
  
And then, at the last possible moment, the Scooby Gang would burst into the   
place as she used her supernatural strength to break her bonds. Then, she would   
proceed to beat the bad guy to a bloody pulp.  
  
Yeah, that was a good plan. Only, he wasn't the Slayer, and his friends would   
probably have no idea that he had even been kidnapped.  
  
He made an effort to think with clarity. He had been taken on Friday night, and   
nobody would notice his absence until Saturday evening at least, later if they   
thought that he wanted to be alone after the fight with Cordelia.  
  
In other words: he was completely on his own.  
  
And he hadn't very many options, either. The only thing he could do was buy   
time, until somebody figured he had been taken and came to his rescue.  
  
Xander tried to gulp down a knot of fear that had formed somewhere inside his   
throat, but not succeeding in making it vanish. Well, if Faith kept ignoring him   
maybe he could...  
  
"I know you're awake, Xander," she said without turning around. "I can feel the   
difference in your breathing and heartbeat, from when you're asleep."  
  
...do nothing at all. He threw a sarcastic look towards the dark ceiling. =Thank   
you, God, for these small favors.=  
  
The former vampire Slayer turned around to look at him, leaning her shapely ass   
on the fragile table and crossing her arms over her generous cleavage. At any   
other time, in any other place, Xander wouldn't have been able to avoid looking   
at her with what would be undoubtedly considered as 'deep male appreciation'.  
  
After all, he'd always had a soft spot for Slayers dressed in practically   
non-existent and skin-tight spandex. And more if they had a body like that, with   
those long, smooth legs, those luscious curves in all the right places, and that   
face – perfect mix of angel and devil, those lips that seemed to say...  
  
=That's fine, loser,= Cordelia's voice said inside his head, =you're getting   
aroused in front of your executioner.= Xander rolled his eyes, there was no cure   
for him.  
  
"What do you want, Faith?" he finally asked, finding his voice ragged and tired   
but not as scared as he had feared. That was good, vampires were predators; they   
could smell the fear in their prey.  
  
Faith strolled to him with an elegant gait, succeeding in capturing his eyes   
with the seductive shake of her hips. "It's not what I want, Xander. It's what I   
can offer you."  
  
Xander raised his eyebrows. "A discount in Vamps 'R Us?"  
  
Faith chuckled, getting close enough to lay an arm on each side of his head and   
nuzzle his neck with her nose. She kissed him tenderly on the soft skin over his   
carotid, and Xander closed his eyes at the cold contact of her lips.  
  
Then he felt her bare leg slowly caressing one of his inner thighs, going up and   
up, until her knee gently made contact with his crotch and he swallowed noisily.   
Faith giggled, hearing him.  
  
"Why, Xander," Faith commented, not stopping her ministrations, "I do believe   
that you're getting... happy to see me."  
  
Xander swallowed once more, and avoided the gaze of her dark eyes. He was   
getting really hard, true, but who could blame him? Then he frowned and looked   
down at Faith, his dark eyes suddenly cold and harsh.  
  
"What do you expect me to do?" he asked, his voice so cold and hard that he   
surprised even himself. "Some of us are still human, after all."  
  
The smile vanished from Faith's lips as if it had never existed, replaced by a   
harsh grimace and a look of almost loathing. She took a step back and let her   
human mask vanish, her beautiful face turning into her demonic visage.  
  
"You have to spoil everything," she said, almost with an incredulous tone.  
  
=Nice going, Xander,= he reproached himself, =make a vampire who has you tied up   
and at her mercy mad. Woo-hoo, way to go...= Xander ignored his inner voice,   
concentrating just on Faith.  
  
"Well, excuse me if I don't find any fun in being punched, kidnapped and tied up   
by a vampire," he practically spat, his voice full of sarcasm.  
  
He then tried to become serene and cool down, knowing that he had the lesser   
cards if the former vampire Slayer lost the little control she still had. "Do   
you want to talk, Faith? Do you want something from me? Fine, untie me and we'll   
talk."  
  
She shook her head, bringing her closed fists to her temples as if in pain. She   
looked to be on the verge of insanity, and Xander couldn't help but feel   
compassion and pity for her. What had happened to her wasn't her fault, after   
all.  
  
"No," the former Slayer said without looking at him. "If I free you, you'll   
leave me, like everybody does."  
  
Xander sighed and shook his head, speaking with heart-felt sincerity. "I won't   
leave you, Faith, I promise. I'm your friend."  
  
"You... are... not... my... friend!!!" she roared, suddenly jumping over to him   
and grasping his throat in an iron-like grip. "I have no friends! I have   
nobody!"  
  
Xander felt his windpipe crushed under the mighty pressure of Faith's vampire   
hands and almost choked on his own saliva as, suddenly, breathing become an   
impossible task.  
  
He tried to struggle out of her strangling grip, but it was like fighting a   
bear. Soon, his lungs began to burn, aching for fresh air as his eyes rolled up   
inside their sockets, a dark blanket covering him.  
  
"Faith..." he managed to gurgle, practically at the edge of unconsciousness.   
"you're... killing me..."  
  
The former vampire Slayer suddenly released him, breaking away from him. Xander   
fell forward, his whole weight leaning on his bound wrists, the wire cutting   
deeply into his flesh.  
  
Ignoring that pain, Xander could only choke and cough as his lungs greedily   
filled with the needed oxygen, his head hanging limp between his shoulders.  
  
"I have no friends, I have nobody, I have no friends, I have nobody..." Faith   
kept repeating again and again like a mantra, her voice muffled by her hands   
hiding her once- more human face.  
  
"You know that's not true," Xander managed to say, in spite of his aching   
throat. "I'm your friend," he insisted, "Buffy's your friend..."  
  
"Shut up!!" she exclaimed, tears of blood now freely rolling over her cheeks.   
She slapped him hard, drawing three bloody lines on his left cheek with her long   
nails and making his head jerk. "You made me this!! I'm this because of you!!"  
  
Xander shook his head, both to deny her declaration and to clear his mind. Maybe   
there was still hope, if he could make her see reason. "No, Faith, you did that   
to yourself. Don't you remember? We tried to convince you not to go up against   
Trick on your own, to wait for..."  
  
She shook her head as she kept on pacing left and right in front of him,   
covering her ears to not hear him.  
  
"Why didn't you wait for us, Faith? Why did you have to go and sacrifice   
yourself like that?" he continued.  
  
Faith stopped dead in her tracks. She kept her back to him, and didn't turn   
around when she answered. "I wanted to protect you, I didn't want any of you to   
be harmed."  
  
She finally turned around, looking at him with her dark eyes full of scarlet   
tears, and the dark-haired boy closed his eyes, feeling his heart full of   
sincere sadness. "I'm sorry, Faith. I'm sorry it took us so long to find you.   
And I'm sorry that we were too late."  
  
She shook her head slowly, drying her tears with the back of her hand.  
  
"Untie me, Faith," Xander insisted gently, "we can still make this right. We can   
help you."  
  
This time, the former vampire Slayer just snorted. "What? How? Can you find a   
cure for this?"  
  
The boy shook his head, seeing her beginning to walk back to him. The wounds on   
his cheeks, wrists and ankles were beginning to burn like hell, and he felt his   
own blood slipping to the corner of his mouth. "The same way we restored your   
soul, we can... help you to have a normal life."  
  
Faith, close enough to him for Xander to smell her perfume, rolled her dark   
eyes, letting out a sarcastic chuckle. "My soul?" she snorted. "Yeah, my   
soul..."  
  
She settled her eyes on Xander's, and he felt an unwilling shiver go down his   
spine. She had cold, dead eyes, like the ones of a rag doll. "I wish you had   
never done that."  
  
"Faith," he tried to regain the moment of connection they'd had barely moments   
before, "I know you blame yourself for what happened after you were turned, but   
it wasn't your fault, we all know that. It was the demon inside you who killed   
all those people..."  
  
Faith's hand emerged from nowhere, grabbing him by the jaw and making him close   
his mouth almost over his own tongue.  
  
"You know?" She looked almost on the brink of maniacal laughter. "You don't know   
shit, Xander – I don't give a damn about that. All those people, they can rot in   
Hell for all I care."  
  
Xander's eyes opened like saucers. "But I thought..."  
  
"You thought? You thought?!?" With each passing moment, Faith looked more and   
more angry, so much in fact that her fangs were beginning to appear under her   
upper lip and her eyes had turned red-gold.  
  
She grabbed him by the hair at the back of his head, painfully yanking it to   
make him look straight into her eyes. "Do you want to know what those few days   
after I was turned meant for me? Do you really want to know?"  
  
Faith yanked once more at his hair, making him grunt in pain. "It was the only   
time in my life when I've been truly free, Xander. Truly happy. No worries, no   
responsibilities, and all that... freedom. To go where I wanted, to do what I   
wanted."  
  
"It wasn't you," Xander insisted between clenched teeth. "It wasn't really you."  
  
"But nooo," she continued, ignoring him. "You had to play the Brady Bunch, you   
had to give me this... thing back," she said, almost with loathing. "Buffy and   
her bunch of saints. You couldn't leave me in peace, no, you had to make me feel   
like a worthless piece of scum again. Poor little Faith who has nobody, who's   
always in need of help..."  
  
"Faith..." Her look, hard and merciless, made him shut up.  
  
"The time for talking is over, Xander. It's time to act." She released his hair   
and walked back to the little table, taking the dirty sheet to uncover it with a   
flowery movement.  
  
The surface of the table looked like the parody of a surgeon's tray of   
instruments, and Xander choked down a gasp of dread when he saw the blades, the   
hammers and the corkscrews.  
  
They looked rusty and not very sharp but, for some reason, their hygienic   
condition wasn't the first priority in his mind.  
  
"Being a vampire is great, Xander. Well," Faith commented almost   
matter-of-factly, as she slowly examined the items on the table, making a show   
out of it. "Sure it has its downside, like never getting a good tan again or not   
being able to eat a good Italian dish with all that garlic – but, all in all, I   
think you're gonna love it."  
  
She took something from the table, something he couldn't see and that she kept   
hidden behind her back when she walked back to him, still rocking her hips like   
a cat.  
  
Only this time, she looked more like a cheap slut to him. "Why?" the human   
teenager simply asked.  
  
Faith shrugged. "I need somebody to share the fun with. And it would be sooo   
nice if you asked me to do it."  
  
Xander shook his head, and managed to let out a dry laugh. "Well, that's so not   
gonna happen."  
  
The former vampire Slayer laughed with merriment. "You say that now, Xander. But   
we'll see in a couple of hours. Tomorrow morning, tops."  
  
The dark-haired boy swallowed with difficulty, feeling his knees going quickly   
weak. "What are you gonna do?" he asked with a fearful voice.  
  
"Oh, well, you could say that I've been studying the classics." Faith just   
raised her hand, showing him what she held there. A railroad spike. "And I've   
learnt from the best."  
  
Xander's eyes opened wide, and he couldn't do anything but to stare as she began   
kissing him on his bare left shoulder while she caressed his chest and pecs, her   
cold fingertips tracing idle circles around his nipples.  
  
"Kiss me," she practically moaned, bringing her lips to his.  
  
When he tried to move away she just grabbed him once again by his hair and   
plunged her mouth onto his, her cold tongue fiercely assaulting the warm   
interior of his mouth like a snake.  
  
"Don't say you don't like it," Faith whispered when she finally broke apart,   
nuzzling his evident erection with her free hand.  
  
Xander couldn't remember ever feeling as dirty as he did right then. And the   
worst part was the fact he couldn't hide his arousal, even when it was only a   
response to hormones from the female vampire's ministrations.  
  
It made him feel as if he was cheating on Cordelia. As if he wasn't anything   
more than an animal, subject to his most primal impulses.  
  
So, he did the only thing he could imagine to demonstrate to Faith what he   
really thought of her right then. He turned and spat into her face.  
  
Faith looked shocked for a second, before her mouth parted again into a big   
smile. Without bothering to remove his saliva from her face, the former vampire   
Slayer yanked again at his hair, making him turn his head and licked his bloody   
cheek slowly and lustfully.  
  
"Hmmm," she moaned, looking at him with amazed eyes and smacking her tongue as   
if she had just tasted a gourmet deli. "What a surprise, Xander. Has anybody   
ever told you that you have tasty blood? It's as if I've got a party going on   
inside my mouth, and everybody's attending."  
  
Xander looked at her long and hard, feeling nauseous. "If you're going to do   
something, do it now before I fall asleep."  
  
"Always the tough guy, huh?" Faith began to caress the sides of his torso with   
feather-like touches. "I like that..." she sank her nails into the flesh under   
his ribs, drawing blood and making him grunt in pain, "...to a point."  
  
She kissed him on the shoulder once more, trailing the whole length of his   
muscled arm with tiny, almost butterfly-like kisses and Xander felt his resolve   
melting, when he began to figure out what she intended.  
  
"Faith, please..." he hated the weakness in his voice and his begging tone, but   
at that very moment he'd have done almost anything to get the hell away from   
her. "Don't do it, Faith. We can still fix this. We can..."  
  
"Sshh," she hushed him, nuzzling the palm of his hand with her face, the rosy   
point of her tongue barely darting to taste the blood that flowed where the wire   
had cut Xander's skin.  
  
When she opened her eyes, they had turned red-gold once more. "Close your eyes,   
sweetheart. I've been told it hurts less if you don't look at it."  
  
Xander felt the panic invading his whole being, as a wave of fear engulfed him.   
He began to breathe so fast, his brain felt numb with the menace of   
hyperventilation. "Faith, no, please, don't do it, Faith, no, no, noooooo!!!"  
  
But she was deaf to any of his pleas as the vampiress raised the spike and, with   
a last look as Xander's panicked face, plunged it down on his open hand, its   
metallic point breaking through thin tissue and hard bone.  
  
It opened a wound that began to bleed immediately, with a cloud of thin red rain   
that fell onto Faith's face, marking her marble skin.  
  
Resolved not to allow her the pleasure of hearing him scream, Xander bit his   
lower lip so strongly that his teeth broke his skin, drawing blood.  
  
"Bitch!!" he shouted when the pain became finally unbearable.  
  
"It doesn't have to be this way," Faith told him, with the same tone that a   
mother would use to explain to her child why she was punishing him for his own   
good. "You only have to say the words, Xander."  
  
"Go to Hell, you bloodsucking whore!!"  
  
Faith shook her head, disappointed. "Not those ones."  
  
The second spike fell on Xander's right hand, ripping his skin, shattering his   
bones and nailing it to the X-shaped cross as firmly as his left one.  
  
This time, Xander screamed at the top of his lungs.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
No matter how bad he'd thought the torture would be, it was soon obvious that   
Faith was going to surpass his expectations. There was no smart nimble chat, no   
lamplight directly focused into his eyes, no 'death of one thousand cuts', no   
'Bolivian telephone' and, of course, no refinement at all.  
  
That night, for Xander Harris, there was only endless pain.  
  
When Faith crucified him, nailing his hands and ankles to the wooden cross with   
railroad spikes, the boy couldn't do anything more than scream and insult her.  
  
When the former Slayer used a heavy sledgehammer to crush his elbows and knees,   
he cried like a child.  
  
When the turn of the edged weapons came, Xander let himself slip into the   
glorious realm of darkness.  
  
And all the time, the only thing Faith asked was for him to say the words. To   
accept her as his sire.  
  
And, with equal stubbornness, the only thing she got was a no on his part.  
  
Xander never knew from where he got the strength to do it. Maybe it was from his   
natural stubbornness, or perhaps from the almost fanatical belief that his   
friends would at last come to his rescue.  
  
Maybe it was that, just for once, he was resolved not to let his will be broken.  
  
All his life the teen had been the weak one, the target of all the school jocks,   
the class clown. Always the fearful and never the feared one, the source of the   
jokes, the guy in the corner of the room, the one that was considered   
dispensable.  
  
But not this time.  
  
He knew, as surely as there was a God in Heaven that was not paying attention to   
him or his pleas, that there wasn't anything he could do to prevent Faith from   
turning him into a soulless bloodsucker if she wanted to.  
  
But when the pain became so strong that it was unbearable, Xander figured numbly   
that if he could just get her mad enough, she would simply kill him and forget   
about the rest of her plan.  
  
God knew that death would be better than his current state of existence.  
  
At first, when the pain had still been humanly bearable, he had tried to resort   
to that old game he used to play with Willow and Buffy – 'anywhere but here'.   
Just to make his mind fly away from the hell into which the present had turned   
into...  
  
The first destination in his voyage to oblivion had been the utility closet,   
with Cordelia. He had let his mind roam without restrictions, remembering the   
softness of her flawless skin under his fingertips, the warmth of her mouth on   
his, the silkiness of her raven hair sliding between his fingers.  
  
How her hazel eyes clouded with a passion she had never known before when they   
were alone, when they managed to forget the lives they had outside that little   
room that was only theirs.  
  
When the only thing that remained were two young would-be lovers, lost in a   
whirlwind of physical sensation.  
  
How soft her neck was under his lips, the feeling of her pulse, the way she   
whimpered when he touched her in all the right places. How powerful, how loved   
he felt when he understood that she made that sound for him, because of him...  
  
=And I never told her I love her,= Xander thought, feeling the bitter taste of   
his bile in his already-sore throat. Whether it was because the idea of dying   
without telling Cordelia his real feelings made him want to puke, or because   
Faith had just punched him in the liver, he didn't know.  
  
From there his mind flew to a thousand different places and times; watching the   
Snoopy Christmas Special with Willow. Doing the Snoopy dance in his footies just   
to make her smile. Watching hideous Indian films in Buffy's bedroom with his two   
best friends. Forgetting all the horrible things that went bump in the night.   
Dancing like mad in the Bronze...  
  
Hearing Oz practicing on his guitar, strolling down the cemetery on patrol with   
Buffy, feeling important because she was his friend and he helped her, staying   
until late in the library doing research and feeling his chest fill with pride   
when he gained some words of approval from Giles...  
  
Any place, any time but the present...  
  
Curiously enough, the last place he visited before he was brutally brought back   
to Faith and the cargo bay was one he'd almost forgotten, long ago. Pre-school   
and daycare, when he was just a five-year-old kid and everything seemed new and   
wonderful.  
  
When every day was an adventure, and living was reduced to just discovering what   
was behind the next corner over there.  
  
Before the cheerleaders turned into cheerleaders, the jocks into jocks, the   
nerds into nerds and the clowns into clowns. He remembered that time, playing in   
the sandbox with his friends... Jesse, Willow, Cordelia...  
  
"We're the four musketeers!" Little Willow had exclaimed.  
  
"The musketeers were three, silly," he had answered, sticking his tongue out at   
her.  
  
"No, Daddy told me," she'd insisted, counting with her fingers. "Athos, Porthos,   
Aramis and... and... Dalmatian!"  
  
Little Cordelia had looked offended. "I'm no mooseteer. I'm a princess!!"  
  
Little Jesse had just stared at her in adoration. "Can I be your prince?"  
  
"Why?" she'd asked, looking at him quizzically and playing with the pink lace   
ribbon that tied back her long mane of hair.  
  
Jesse had then smiled shyly. "Because that way, we could get married."  
  
He'd practically burst into laughter, rolling over in the sand. "Jesse and   
Cordelia sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."  
  
"Shut up, Xander!!" an offended Cordelia had shouted. "And I won't marry a   
prince, never, ever, ever... princes are silly."  
  
"Yeah," Willow had then agreed. "They don't know how to do anything, but wear   
breeches and go on hunts."  
  
Jesse had looked confused, and a little sad. "Then who are you gonna get married   
to?"  
  
Cordelia had subsequently smiled brightly. "I will marry a brave knight," she'd   
stated. "A brave, handsome and valiant white knight, in shining armor. He will   
rescue me and kill the dragon and..."  
  
"I'd prefer to be the dragon," his younger self had interrupted her, getting up.   
"But I wouldn't eat you, 'cause I'm sure you'd taste awful, like peas."  
  
Cordelia had looked to be on the brink of tears. "You're a mean boy, and I hate   
you!"  
  
"No, I hate you!" He'd stuck his tongue out at her and the girl just pushed him,   
making him fall flat on his ass in the sand. Unfortunately, he'd started crying.  
  
"Xander is a girly," Cordelia had chanted, dancing around him. "Xander is a   
girly!"  
  
Faith's ragged voice brought him back to the here and now, ripping him away from   
the comfortable world of the past.  
  
"What are you smiling at?" She sounded furious, but Xander couldn't figure why,   
not even to save his own life.  
  
She grabbed his jaw and made him look straight at her red-gold eyes, her claws   
painfully digging into his bleeding cheeks. "What do you find so funny?!"  
  
Xander looked at her through his only-working eye, as the right side of his face   
was so swollen that the eyelid was completely shut. When he spoke, his voice   
came out like the murmur of wind through a rusty pipe.  
  
Weak, ragged and haunted. "You..."  
  
"What?" she frowned.  
  
Xander managed to snort, even when it caused him to cringe in pain. "You're...   
funny... make me... laugh..."  
  
The former vampire Slayer's golden eyes seemed to burn with pure hatred. "Why   
don't you understand it, Xander? What do you need to understand it?"  
  
Xander shook his head weakly, recovering his voice. "Understand... what? Faith,   
don't have... time... energy... anything at all... to get your...   
psychobabble..."  
  
He coughed and tasted his own blood on his lips; nevertheless, he managed to   
offer her an almost-decent fake crooked smile. "Why don't you go back to the   
pain part? It's beginning to excite me..."  
  
Faith detached herself from him, her hands on her hips and shaking her head as   
if in confusion. "What are you expecting, Xander? Do you expect for them to find   
you? Are you expecting for God-almighty-Buffy to come to your rescue?"  
  
She kneeled beside him, so she could look straight into his eyes without having   
to lift his hanging head. "You don't get it, do you? Nobody is gonna come, they   
don't care enough about you to go to all that effort of finding you..."  
  
The dark-haired boy just looked at her, but said nothing. He was beginning to be   
cold, in spite of the burning sensation of all his wounds. Blood loss. It was   
getting so cold in there...  
  
"Why can't you see it as clearly as I can, Xander? We're the same, we have   
nobody, no real friends, no real family..."  
  
"I have friends," he managed to blurt out, with a thick note of stubbornness in   
his voice.  
  
Faith sighed and took his head between her hands, softly caressing his hair in   
an almost ridiculous gesture. "They're not really your friends, Xander. They   
can't be. None of them understand how is to be alone, how it is not to have   
anyone to hold you when you think that the world is coming to an end. They don't   
know how is to be in the middle of a crowd, and still be completely alone.   
Accept me, Xander."  
  
She smiled at him so sweetly, it was heartbreaking. "I'll take care of you...   
we'll take care of each other..."  
  
Xander opened and closed his mouth, like a fish out of water. Then he closed his   
eye that worked. "I already have... a girlfriend."  
  
The former vampire Slayer dropped his head. "That bitch? What do you see in her?   
What does she have that I couldn't give you?"  
  
Good question indeed. What did Cordelia Chase have that had turned his world   
upside down for the last twelve months? Was it the way she ridiculed him in   
front of his friends? The way she always managed to make him look like a lame   
idiot?  
  
Or was it the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she knew something that   
nobody else did? That 'I know who you really are' look. That 'I know that only   
you know the real me' look.  
  
He chuckled. No, it was the way that, in the end, she always accepted him as he   
was, without asking more or less than what he could give her. Like that time   
when she had stayed with him, while he guarded Buffy's ill back.  
  
Getting him donuts and black coffee, her odd way of saying 'I accept you'.  
  
And, he couldn't fool himself on this, it was the way she made him feel alive.  
  
When they made out. When they laughed. Even, God help him, when they were   
fighting. He needed Buffy and Willow to keep on functioning, but Cordelia made   
life worth living.  
  
"She makes my life... spicy," he confessed.  
  
Faith snorted. "Maybe I should bring her here, and check how spicy she really   
is."   
  
Xander felt something breaking inside him at hearing her threat. "Faith..." he   
called her, barely in a whisper, "...c'mere. Got something... to tell ya."  
  
Raising a quizzical eyebrow, the former vampire Slayer walked back to him,   
leaning down beside him to hear him better.  
  
When she was near enough, Xander just gathered all the strength that remained in   
his broken body, raised his head and hit her with a head-butt squarely on her   
brow, making her stagger back in surprise and pain.  
  
"Don't you dare touch her, you bitch!!!" he shouted, feeling his throat burning   
with the effort. "You better not touch her – 'cause I swear that if you do, I'll   
crawl all the way out of Hell itself if I have to, and rip your goddamn heart   
out with my bare hands!!"  
  
Faith brought a hand to her brow, where Xander's blow had broken skin, and   
looked in astonishment at her bloodied fingers.  
  
Then, in merely a fraction of second, her expression went from surprise to pure   
rage.  
  
The vampiress walked to him with determined steps and punched him in the gut so   
hard, it made him cough and spit blood. Then she just yanked at his hair,   
exposing his neck.  
  
"Have it your way, Xander," Faith growled as her face changed to its demonic   
self, "but I swear to you that you'll be the one to kill her. I'll make you kill   
her, and then we'll eat her heart together while it's still warm."  
  
Before he could say anything at all, her fangs sank into the tender flesh of his   
throat, ripping open his carotid. Xander could only moan, oddly aroused by the   
feeling of his lifeblood being sucked out from the open wound in his neck.  
  
It was quicker than what he'd expected. In a very few moments, a blanket of   
darkness fell on him, and everything seemed to become suddenly distant and   
unfocused.  
  
He stopped feeling pain, as numbness took over his body – his brain just stopped   
functioning, and Xander began to forget even what the reason was why he had been   
suffering moments ago.  
  
It was getting dark, and the cold wasn't very unpleasant. He felt oddly   
comfortable, and all he wanted was to snuggle into a fetal position and just   
stop thinking. Just stop...  
  
Something filled his mouth, something wet, cold and coppery, with a deep   
metallic taste. He gulped down the liquid, finding its alien taste strangely   
delicious and the boy greedily sucked from the source of that rare ambrosia,   
feeling his throat burn with a thirst that couldn't be placated.  
  
When it was finally taken away from him he felt empty, as if his body was   
becoming a hull, devoid of any content.  
  
The transformation began almost immediately, and its first step came when his   
heart stopped beating. It wasn't painful at all; in fact, the teen was engulfed   
by a peace he had never known before, as if he had finally reached that port of   
calm that had been searching for his whole life.  
  
Everything turned dark. And cold. And silent.  
  
And then, Xander Harris finally died.  
  
Curiously enough, his last conscious thought before he was taken into Death's   
embrace was the certainty, the almost fanatical conviction that this precise   
moment wasn't by any means the end.  
  
In fact, it was just the beginning.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Sunnydale, California. December 2, 2002. 6:35 a.m.  
  
  
Nearly four years later, Xander awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth. The   
sticky threads of the nightmare were still crawling over his skin, leaving a   
shivering path of fear behind them as they retreated to the darker corners of   
his subconscious self. To wait for the next moment to strike.  
  
With a frown he brought his fingers to his lips, and looked at the unmistakable   
traces of the red vital liquid matting his skin. Startled, he lost no time in   
turning around to face the still form of Cordelia beside him. Had he done   
something during his sleep? God help him, had he... bitten her?  
  
For a second he feared what he would find, and a thousand different scenarios   
crossed his still-fogged mind as he watched his own hand, moving almost of its   
own volition, reaching to touch Cordy's bare shoulder.  
  
When their skins finally made contact, he felt a wave of relief washing him.   
Warm, she was warm.  
  
Cordelia turned in her sleep, snuggling closer to him and burying her face in   
his broad chest. Xander enveloped her in his protective embrace, placing a soft   
kiss on the crown of her dark-haired head.  
  
Now that he was calmer he passed his tongue over his own lip, noticing the cut   
where his own teeth had broken skin during his sleep. He felt suddenly cold, a   
sensation born from his own interior and against which his vampire abilities   
could do nothing at all.  
  
Letting himself finally relax beside her, Xander looked over her sleeping form,   
his dark eyes lost on the window of the bedroom, watching as the first rays of   
the sun began to filter through the blinds, slowly but effectively making the   
darkness of the night vanish.  
  
He remembered. Faith. The cargo bay. The spikes. The pain...   
  
But that was long ago, almost an entire lifetime away from where he was now.  
  
It was in the past. And the past could only hurt him if he let it do so.  
  
Right?  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Outside, the sun was rising up in the sky, banishing the night with the stabbing   
of its rays of light. Sunnydale was beginning to wake up and all across the   
town, the creatures of the darkness went in search for a safe refuge from the   
burning daylight.  
  
But one of them remained a little longer, defying the rising sun and the harsh   
light of day. Wrapped in a long and thick cape, the former vampire Slayer known   
simply as Faith watched the light reflection in the window of Cordelia's   
bedroom, and let a smile cross the beautiful features of her human façade.  
  
"I knew you'd came back to mommy, my dear," she whispered before turning around,   
turning her back on the sun and walking into the nearest alley, disappearing   
into the darkness.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	4. Part 4 of 5

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 4 of 5   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book I:  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers  
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD  
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer  
Brian Bosworth as Cecil  
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD  
  
and  
  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER THREE: Surprise party  
Sunnydale, California. December 2, 2002. 6:40 a.m.  
  
Back to the cold restless streets at night  
I talk to myself about tomorrow night  
Walls of white protest  
A gravestone in name  
Who is it now  
It's always the same  
Who is it now  
Who calls me inside  
Are the leaves on the trees  
Just living disguise  
I walk sweet rain tragicomedy  
I'll walk home again  
to the street melody  
  
"Shadows and Tall Trees", U2  
  
  
The first conscious thought that Rupert Giles had that morning, when the   
piercing ring of the telephone brought him out of his peaceful slumber, was a   
murderous one.  
  
To be exact, he wished that he could put his hands around the neck of whoever   
was calling him at such an early hour, and then apply slow and careful pressure   
until his eyes popped out of their sockets.  
  
Instead, what he did with a tired grunt was to reluctantly extricate himself   
from Joyce's embrace and pad barefoot downstairs to his office, feeling the   
chilly air of the morning worm its way under his pajamas.  
  
He stifled a curse when his bare feet stepped on the cold ceramic of the stairs,   
and cursed himself for forgetting once more to call the plumber to check the   
heating.  
  
=You're getting old, Rupert,= he chastised himself, taking the phone from its   
cradle.  
  
"Rupert Giles," he said harshly, not bothering to hide his annoyance. If there   
was one thing that he had gladly learnt from the Americans, it was that   
sometimes it was really healthy not to hide it when one was pissed off. And it   
felt pretty damn good, too.  
  
"Mr. Giles, it's been a long time," the voice of Quentin Travers came from the   
other end of the line.  
  
Giles felt a ball of ice suddenly forming in the pit of his stomach and had to   
sit down, feeling a wave of dizziness fogging his mind. He felt the craving for   
a good dose of Scotch, if for nothing else just to erase the foul taste in his   
mouth.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked sternly, passing a tired hand over his face.  
  
His superior on the Watcher's Council remained silent for a second, before   
answering. "Always playing the mean guy, eh Ripper?" he said conversationally,   
almost with a chuckle. "It's been brought to our... attention that certain   
novelties regarding your assigned Slayer have developed, during the last month."  
  
Giles was about to choke on his own saliva. The moment that he had known about   
Buffy's condition as an Immortal, he had understood that keeping her away from   
the Council's manipulations had passed from being a convenience to becoming a   
necessity.  
  
He wasn't entirely sure what the Council's reaction would be, but he was certain   
that it wouldn't be a good one. At least, not good as far as Buffy was   
concerned.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure of what you're talking about," he said, trying   
to sound as clueless as possible. The only answer he received from his superior   
was a low chuckle.  
  
"I've never been very fond of playing hide and seek, Giles," Travers finally   
told him, sounding genuinely amused, "but it seems that after spending so much   
time in the colonies, you've adopted some of their more... annoying tendencies."  
  
There was a short silence. "As you wish, Rupert," Travers declared with a sigh   
of resignation, too long and deep to sound sincere. "We know that your Slayer   
has overstepped the rules once more, and associated herself with a... let's say,   
independent group of hunters. Seriously, Rupert, what's going to come next? Is   
that girl going to announce herself on the Yellow Pages?"  
  
Giles reclined back in his chair and tiredly massaged the bridge of his nose,   
letting out a snort full of sarcasm. "Exactly," he confirmed, "in the 'plague   
eradicators' section."  
  
The line went practically dead in the Watcher's ear, and the British man   
smoothly raised one of his eyebrows. =What's up, Quentin? Did you think you were   
the only one allowed to be sarcastic?= he thought with a smug grin.  
  
"Anyway," the man continued after a tense moment of silence, "we're a little...   
worried about the exact nature of these new... friendships."  
  
=So that's what this is all about.= Giles was barely able to hide a sign of   
ease, at least it seemed that Buffy's new condition was still a secret. "I   
thought that we had reached an agreement, after Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's death."  
  
Travers sighed sadly. "Oh yes, the never-enough-missed Wesley... can you remind   
me what agreement that was, Rupert?"  
  
=Bastard,= Giles thought, not allowing himself the pleasure of calling him that   
aloud. "You leave us alone, and we keep the Hellmouth clean. And we've completed   
our part of the pact with flying colors, I might add."  
  
"Yes, yes," Travers admitted, obviously reluctantly. "Still, you must admit that   
allowing your Slayer to have a relationship of romantic nature with a vampire,   
and one that's already turned against you once, is highly... unorthodox."  
  
Giles had to bite his own tongue, not to curse the man at the other end of the   
telephone.  
  
Travers continued, "And now you've associated yourselves with another vampire.   
And a soulless Master vampire, widely known for his lack of mercy and brutal   
behavior."  
  
"Spike has changed," Giles said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, but feeling   
that his voice didn't carry enough conviction.  
  
Travers chuckled in his ear. "And why do you believe him? Do you trust in his   
word? Do you trust in him?"  
  
"I trust in the man that brought him," Giles practically growled into the phone.   
"I have his word on the matter, and that's enough for me."  
  
"You shouldn't be so eager to give your trust to anybody, Rupert. Not in this   
game."  
  
"This is not a game, Travers," Giles didn't bother to hide his disdain,   
practically spitting the man's name out. "It never was, and it never will be."  
  
His superior on the Council of Watchers just sighed, almost with boredom. "Game,   
business, whatever... what I'm trying to tell you, Mr. Giles, is that you should   
try to gather more information about your so-called associates before giving   
your trust to them so completely. Maybe they aren't exactly what you think."   
  
Giles felt a cold sensation engulfing his body, and this time he was sure it   
wasn't because of the broken heating system. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You should read this morning's newspaper, Rupert. There was a... party   
yesterday in Los Angeles, in the Kobayashi Towers, to be exact. I think you'll   
find the information... interesting. Have a nice day, Rupert."  
  
The line finally went dead in Giles' ear, and the Watcher looked at the   
telephone as if it was alive and speaking to him in an extraterrestrial   
language.  
  
Then, very slowly, he put it back on its cradle and, with his mind engulfed into   
a maelstrom of thoughts, he went upstairs. He had to dress, go out and buy some   
newspapers. Then he could think on what to do.  
  
But, first of all, he needed a big cup of tea.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The red, cold liquid fell over the meat in big drops, forming sticky pools that   
bathed the organic mix over the table. The tall man used his metallic and   
pointed instruments to stir the mix before stabbing one large piece of meat and   
bringing it, dripping its own juices and the red spicy additive, to his mouth.  
  
On the other side of the kitchen table and from behind their steaming mugs of   
black coffee and herbal tea, Rachel Curran and Crystal Parker watched in mute   
fascination the show that was their Texan friend having breakfast.  
  
As Kyle munched the mix of bacon, ketchup, fried eggs and sausages with blissful   
expression, the brunette Immortal couldn't help but cringe in amazement.  
  
"It's like when you're driving and you pass by a traffic accident, it's   
repugnant..."   
  
"...but you can't take your eyes away from the spectacle," Crystal finished for   
her, looking with equal horrified fascination at the Texan. "Kyle, do you know   
how much cholesterol and how many toxins that you're exposing your body to?   
That's pure poison!"  
  
Kyle barely raised his eyes from his dish to send a quick and hostile look to   
the two women, all the time bringing one fork full of food to his mouth after   
another.  
  
"Food is good," he said between two mouthfuls, in his best Neanderthal-like   
style. "Tasty. Bad women. Mind your own business," he finished, menacing them   
with the dripping point of his fork.  
  
"Life's so unfair," Rachel commented with envy. "Look at me, I'm Immortal, I   
could fall off the top of the Empire State Building and survive. But still, if I   
ignore my diet just once I have to sweat bullets to lose the fat, and you..."  
  
"What about me?" Kyle asked with a frown, open-mouthedly munching his breakfast.  
  
Rachel waved indignantly at him. "Just look at yourself! You spend the whole day   
eating fast food, and you look like the poster boy for 'Muscles' magazine!"  
  
The Texan just shrugged. "I have a fast metabolism. I can eat what I want, and   
not get fat."  
  
The brunette Immortal looked at him, through half-closed eyes. "I hate you."  
  
Both the tall Texan and the witch laughed good-naturedly at her serious   
expression, as the dark-haired man took a slice of bacon from his dish and threw   
it to Elvis, who was patiently waiting beside him for his share of the tasty   
meal.  
  
The large German shepherd grasped it mid-air and happily munched it, swallowing   
with a whine of contentment.  
  
"If you insist on killing yourself with that filth," Crystal advised him with a   
frown, "the least you could do is not take the poor animal to the grave with   
you."  
  
Kyle just snorted, scratching the animal's thick neck. "Neither Elvis nor I have   
any intention of departing anytime soon, Cris. Don't you think so, big boy?"  
  
The dog stood up on his rear paws, leaning the front ones on the table, and   
barked once in agreement. Then he sank to the dish and grabbed a mouthful of   
bacon between his jaws, quickly running away with his prize.  
  
"Hey!" Kyle protested, watching the dog escape. "That's my breakfast, you   
traitor!"  
  
The tall Texan looked at the remains of his meal, with a grimace on his face.   
"Man's best friend, my ass. How am I supposed to eat this now? It's full of dog   
spittle!"  
  
In that very moment, Michael entered the kitchen, clad in blue jeans and an   
unbuttoned flannel shirt over his black T-shirt.  
  
"Bonjour a tout," he said, hiding a yawn in his fist and leaning to give Rachel   
a quick peck on the lips.  
  
"New look?" she asked with an expression of amusement in her soft brown eyes,   
eyeing the red and black shirt, which looked three times bigger on the French   
Immortal's slightly lanky figure.  
  
"Oui," he mumbled, making a beeline for the coffee machine and serving himself a   
mug of the black and bitter confection. "I'm trying to get in contact with my   
inner lumberjack. Ah, bacon!" he exclaimed, taking one of Kyle's last slices and   
quickly bringing it to his mouth.  
  
"What?" he asked between two munches, clueless at the reason for his friends'   
expressions of loathing.  
  
However, Rachel's answer was cut short by the unmistakable sensation of a   
nearing Immortal, the 'buzz' as they usually referred to it, and both she and   
her mentor and lover raised their eyes to the elevator across the huge   
warehouse.  
  
The wooden gate of the lifter opened and a grinning Xander stepped out of it,   
smiling from ear to ear and generally looking too much like somebody who'd just   
had the time of his life.  
  
"Woooo!" Rachel cheered. "Someone got lucky last night!"  
  
"Good morning to you too, Rach," the young vampire greeted her, pecking her and   
the red-haired witch on their cheeks in a friendly way, before moving to the   
coffee machine. "And good morning to everybody else, by the way. How's   
everything going?"  
  
"Just having a very Brady breakfast," Michael quipped, sipping from his mug.   
  
Xander snorted, serving himself a good dose of almost pure caffeine in his mug,   
which had the yellow and black symbol of Batman drawn on its ceramic surface,   
all the time eyeing at his French friend out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Flannel?" Xander asked, with a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes and a   
half-smile on his lips. "Having a Canadian state of mind?"  
  
Michael's murderous intentions were clear, in the look that he sent him. "Just   
let me be, d'accord?"  
  
The young vampire just smiled crookedly at him and hopped onto the counter,   
facing the rest of his friends. "Well, taking advantage of the fact that we're   
all here, we could use the moment to go over the day's schedule for everybody.   
What do we have on the agenda for today?"  
  
"Could I point out the fact that there's someone missing?" Rachel observed. "A   
certain peroxide-blonde vampire, to be exact."  
  
"Hmmm," Kyle murmured, raising a raven black eyebrow, "and I couldn't figure out   
the reason for all this peace..."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes. "Could someone go and get Spike, please?"  
  
Rachel volunteered herself for the task and quickly went in search of the   
British vampire, while Kyle offered the remains of his breakfast to Xander. "Do   
you wanna have a piece, boss?"  
  
Xander sniffed the dish with suspicion, before rejecting it with a grimace. "No   
thanks, I already ate something at the girls' place."  
  
Minutes later, Rachel returned with Spike on her tail, the blonde vampire   
padding barefoot and scratching his ass through his sweatpants while letting out   
a tired and wide open-mouthed yawn.  
  
Covering his torso, he put on a wrinkled T-shirt with the image of the Pokémon   
Pikachu happily jumping across the grass. The yellow electric rodent had the   
crosshairs of a rifle scope settled on his head and, all across the fabric one   
could read in wide bold letters: 'Shoot the rat! Gotta kill 'em all!'  
  
"Do any of you have any idea of what bloody time it is?" he asked, sitting down   
and propping his feet on the table.  
  
"Bad night?" Xander asked him with a half-smile. "Where's the guy that prides   
himself on not needing more than three hours of sleep per day?"  
  
"He died yesterday," Spike grunted, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. "I   
drowned 'im in a pint o' beer last night."  
  
Crystal politely left a huge mug of black coffee in front of him and the vampire   
nodded a 'thanks, luv' to her, quickly and noisily downing half of it. "Bloody   
'angover..."  
  
"You're getting old, Blondie," Kyle mocked him. Spike just gave him the finger.  
  
"OK," Xander cut to the chase. "I have to write the report on yesterday's   
operation, does anybody have any comments about it?"  
  
"Next time I'd like more preparation time," Michael commented, sipping from his   
mug. "I mean, doing the John Wayne act can be fun, but it is hardly what you   
could call professional, non?"  
  
"Come on," Spike protested. "Was I the only one that had a good time at   
yesterday's party?" He noticed the pointed looks directed at him, and rolled his   
cold blue eyes. "I see..."  
  
"What I mean," the French Immortal continued, sending a murderous look to the   
bleached-hair vampire, "is that with more time to prepare it, the action could   
had been cleaner, quicker and more... discreet."  
  
"Not to mention that the body count would have been lower," Crystal added.  
  
Xander let out a sigh. "I know, and I basically agree with you, but you have to   
remember how the Precognitive and the Investigative units work – they alerted us   
as soon as they had the information. Anything else to add? How's everything   
going with the security system?"  
  
Kyle let out a grunt. "The front door is as secure as I'm able to make it. I've   
substituted the steel door with one of titanium and a ceramic composite, that's   
supposedly missile-proof."  
  
Rachel raised an eyebrow at this. "Supposedly?"  
  
The tall Texan flashed a smile to her. "Well, babe, I'm not going to shoot an   
M-47 Dragon against it just to check it out. Anyway, I've also changed the roof   
access door to an armored one, and both of them have a security system with a   
six-digit electronic lock that changes each day. The whole system is   
booby-trapped, so if somebody tries to introduce a random combination..." he   
clapped his hands, "...boom."  
  
"Nice to know that you think of everything," Xander complimented him. "What   
about the sewer entrance? It's the weakest spot."  
  
"It's ready... I think. I've installed a titanium-duraluminium iris, electronic   
lock, mobile security cameras, infra-red and thermal sensors connected to some   
Claymore land-mines and other nasty surprises. You better watch your step when   
you use that sewer, Blondie."  
  
"Let me see if I've got this straight," Michael said, preventing Spike's sharp   
comeback. "We're literally sleeping on a bed made with explosives, whose   
security hasn't been properly tested, aren't we?"  
  
Kyle considered it for a moment. "Yeah, you could say so."  
  
Michael nodded, and took a slow sip from his mug. "I can live with that."  
  
Chuckling and shaking his head in amazement, Xander left his empty cup of coffee   
before turning back to his friends. "Is there anything to add, apart from that?"  
  
"Angel will come this evening," Crystal said. "We're going to work a little on   
the soul thing."  
  
"And Buffy has a training session scheduled after her classes," Michael added.   
"Apart from that..."  
  
Xander snapped his fingers and made an expression as if he has just remembered   
something important. "Yeah, Cordy is gonna bring her, and that reminds me... I   
told her you'd take a look at her car," he said, pointedly looking at Kyle.  
  
The tall Texan looked around himself looking for an escape, but it was obvious   
that he was the one Xander was talking to. "Me? And why should I do that?"  
  
The young vampire offered a saccharine-sweet smile and an innocent look to him.   
"Because you're a very nice guy, and you like her a lot."  
  
Kyle looked pointedly at Spike. "Can you believe this? I have to check the car   
of my boss' girlfriend. Now I know that my life has hit rock bottom."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire practically giggled, if that was possible. "Pathetic   
looks rather good on ya, Cowboy."  
  
"Hey, Spike," the tall Texan offered his dish to him with a wide smile. "Have a   
slice."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Damon Frost was bored, and slowly driving himself crazy.  
  
He had been an action man for his whole life, and always considered that period   
of calm waiting before the storm a private hell. He felt restless, full of   
nervous energy, and he needed to go somewhere, do something. Anything...   
  
Restlessly playing with an old-looking Catholic rosary, letting the wooden beads   
pass between his fingers one by one, Damon looked outside through the windows of   
the ample room that they had assigned to him in the mansion.  
  
He looked at the deep cliffs upon which the gray building was perched, and let   
out a sigh of near-desperation.  
  
It was a long fall down, if someone was stupid enough to take a walk along them.   
The sky was dark gray outside, and the waves were crashing violently against the   
rocks on the shoreline. It was difficult to believe it was still mid-day.  
  
"Do you like the view, Mr. Frost?" the ragged voice of the old Chess Player   
asked behind him, catching him by surprise.  
  
Damon blinked repeatedly, turning around and barely controlling the impulse to   
draw out the gun he had under his jacket. "Didn't your parents teach you not to   
startle an armed man?"  
  
The old man snorted, and slowly wheeled himself near the younger hit man. "My   
parents, Mr. Frost, taught me a lot of things. They taught me how to fight, how   
to live and, above all, they taught me how to survive. Do you know what my   
father would say if he was alive?"  
  
With a bored and uninterested expression, Damon rolled his black eyes. "Let me   
guess... 'please, somebody open this damn coffin'?"  
  
The old man stared back at him, with a patent lack of amusement in his eyes.   
"No. He would say that all good things come to those who know when to wait for   
them."  
  
"Fine," the sandy-haired young man leaned nonchalantly on the frame of the large   
window, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you know what mine would say?"  
  
"No. What would he say?"  
  
Damon bowed slightly in front of the old man, and looked straight at his eyes   
from barely a few inches of distance. Then he spoke slow and clear. "I haven't   
the least friggin' idea."  
  
With a smug grin, the killer leaned back on the window frame. "The old bastard   
let himself get killed when I was just a baby. But a good friend of mine taught   
me that advice is cheap, because it's founded on other people's mistakes."  
  
He looked down at the crippled man, long and hard. "You've hired me to do a job   
– so why don't you let me do it, pay me and then we can get on with our merry   
lives?"  
  
With a tired, almost disappointed sigh, the old Chess Player wheeled himself   
away from Damon's figure and back to the room's door. "You have to learn to be   
patient, Mr. Frost. It's a good trait in anyone, old or young."  
  
The sandy-haired young man just snorted. The Chess Player continued, "But if   
what you want is some action, you can accompany Mr. Smith. He is going to run   
some ... errands for me, tonight."  
  
Damon raised an eyebrow. "Someone I know?"  
  
"You won't have to kill anybody, if that's what you're trying to imply," the old   
Chess Player flashed him a long, sick grin. "Someone else took care of that some   
time ago."  
  
With a frown, Damon just watched as his host wheeled out of his room, wondering   
what he meant by that. Very slowly, he turned once more to the window and looked   
outside, resuming his play with the rosary.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When Cordelia took the next curve in their trip from their apartment to the   
Archangel's warehouse, the whole structure of her aged VW Beetle convertible   
seemed to shake and protest with the effort of the movement.  
  
Its engine coughed, and a large cloud of black smoke came out from the exhaust   
pipe.  
  
"Please, remind me again why you bought this piece of junk," Buffy asked her   
brunette friend, searching for a place to put her hands on the ragged and dirty   
dashboard – and choosing her own lap, after not being able to find one.  
  
"Because it was the only car that I could afford," Cordelia told her   
matter-of-factly. "Furthermore, I like convertibles and it's a classic."  
  
From her place in the tight back seat, Willow practically squeaked when a little   
hole in the road made them bounce inside the vintage German car. "Well, I-I   
can't say that this isn't thrilling, in a roller coaster sort of way but, is   
there much longer to go?"  
  
"We're almost there..." Cordelia said, giving her an amused look through the   
lopsided rear-view mirror.  
  
Barely a few (but shaken) minutes later, they finally arrived at the warehouse   
and Cordelia honked three times, waiting for the main gate to open. The metallic   
blind, that seemed curiously new, quickly and silently rolled up and the   
brunette girl drove her car inside the building, directly into the ground level   
that the guys had established as a makeshift parking and reparation area.  
  
Kyle was already there, dressed in mechanic-like overalls and with his hands and   
face matted with oil and black grease. He signaled to her to park the coughing   
Beetle between his cherry-red Pathfinder, and an old and rusty 1973 Chevy Monte   
Carlo with tinted glass that had its hood wide open.  
  
"Hey, hey, watch out, Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang!" he exclaimed when she was about   
to run over him with a screech of non-functioning brakes, and then taking a long   
and horrified look at the car while the girls stepped out of it.   
  
"Where the hell did you find this, Cordy? In a junkyard?" he asked.  
  
"Why don't you go and try to find a car with the pay of a part-time clerk,   
Kyle?" she told him, killing the engine, which sputtered for some moments before   
finally stopping. "I've been saving for this baby for two years, and I've been   
practically living on a chicken soup diet to buy it."  
  
"Yeah, and we can swear to that," Buffy said, alternatively eyeing the brunette   
and the car. "It's nice to see that all that sacrifice has been for a good   
cause."  
  
The tall Texan opened the rear hood, and took a quick look at the engine. "Oh my   
God," he whispered with a grimace, stepping back.  
  
"Can you do anything for it?"  
  
Kyle just grunted. "It would be quicker and more compassionate just to shoot   
this thing, and let it rest in peace." Cordelia just looked at him with her best   
pout, and Kyle's shoulders sank as he sighed in defeat. "I'll see what I can do,   
OK?"  
  
"Thanks, you're my favorite guy in the world, Kyle," the brunette chipped,   
pecking him on the cheek and then grimacing. "Although I prefer you cleaner."  
  
"Get outta here!" he took a dirty towel from the roof of the Chevy, and   
playfully menaced the three young women with it. The girls quickly escaped   
towards the elevator in a burst of giggles, and he turned back to the vintage   
Chevy with a wide smile.  
  
As the lift brought the three friends to the second level of the warehouse, both   
Cordelia and Willow noticed when the Slayer leaned on the wall and closed her   
eyes, as a grimace of pain quickly crossed her features.  
  
"Are you alright, Buffy?" the red-haired apprentice of witchcraft asked her with   
concern.  
  
"Yeah," the Slayer told her with a dismissive wave of her hand, "it's just this   
damn 'buzz'. Xander says you get accustomed to it with time, but I'm beginning   
to get really tired of it."  
  
The elevator finally reached its destination and stopped with a final shake,   
allowing them to get out after opening its wooden door.  
  
"Hey!" Cordelia yelled, searching for their friends. "Where are you guys?"  
  
They crossed the empty space that separated the elevator from the different   
areas, that had been set up all along the wide interior of the building. And   
that, at that very moment, seemed as devoid of human life as the halls of a   
haunted house.  
  
"Where are they?" Buffy asked almost to herself, looking around. "Come on guys,   
you know I can feel you..."  
  
"The kitchen's empty," Willow told them from there, "and there's no note on the   
fridge, either."  
  
When they had to leave in a hurry and they had no time to contact with the   
Scooby Gang, Xander or Michael always used to leave a note on the fridge saying   
something like 'We went to save the world. We'll be back for lunch. Buy milk for   
us, please' or something like that.  
  
Willow used to call it 'weird vamp hunters' humor'. Cordelia opined it was   
'immaturity in its purest form'.  
  
"Kyle would have told us if they'd gone..." Buffy turned around with a frown and   
very slowly took the case that was hanging from her shoulder, opening it,   
"...out."  
  
The figure emerged from the shadows of the high ceiling, as if it had just   
materialized from them. Completely dressed in black to the point that not one   
inch of his skin could be seen, and with his face covered by a smiling mask of   
white and red porcelain, the figure landed soundlessly at Buffy's back – and   
attacked her with the sureness and speed of an extremely experienced fighter.  
  
The blonde vampire Slayer was barely able to dodge the first high roundhouse   
kick that was aimed to her head, and do a quick backflip to distance herself   
from her attacker, before the figure was once more upon her.  
  
"Buffy!" Willow shouted, while Cordelia and herself started to run to her aid.   
  
"No!" the Slayer told them, taking out her training Kendo sword from the case.   
"This freak is mine!"  
  
Flexing her knees, she lifted her wooden stick to a defensive position as the   
black-clad figure calmly walked around her, practically strolling at a leisurely   
pace. Buffy took a second to examine him with a frown.  
  
He was an Immortal, that was for sure – all her senses were telling her so, and   
the fact that he seemed to be unarmed didn't make him look any less dangerous.  
  
He was tall, with the toned body of a swimmer under the tight long-sleeved black   
T-shirt and dress pants. The hood that covered his head didn't allow her to see   
the color of his hair, and the mask covering his face did the same for his face   
and eyes.  
  
The mask briefly caught her attention. A smiling demon with long fangs and   
horns, red lips and white skin. Where had she seen something like that before?  
  
Oh yeah, in an exposition of Japanese art that her mother's gallery had hosted   
months ago. A devilish and playful spirit from the Japanese woods or something   
like that, she couldn't remember Giles' exact explanation to save her own life.   
A Kami demon.  
  
Well, this one's intentions didn't seem very playful.  
  
The man attacked once more with a fake kick to her hip destined to mislead her,   
quickly followed by the real one to her shoulder. Buffy blocked it with her   
forearm and counterattacked with a punch to his risen knee, that made him grunt   
in pain and backpedal.  
  
He spun around his other leg and swept under Buffy's ones, making her fall down   
and lose her Kendo blade.  
  
With a grunt, the blonde Slayer spun over her back like a whirlwind, kicking the   
man in the stomach and making him collapse to his knees. In a whisper they were   
face to face, both on their knees, exchanging punches and blows at full speed,   
parrying and dodging, hitting and blocking with the skill and precision of two   
professional fighters.  
  
Buffy succeeded in a hit to the man's throat, but couldn't block the black-clad   
man's next strike, that managed to slip under her guard, hitting her in the gut.  
  
"Hey!" Buffy shouted in pain, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting his arm   
painfully. "Didn't..." without releasing the man, she punched him hard in the   
gut, "...your mother teach you..." another punch, this time to the liver,   
"...not to hit..." the man grunted when the Slayer's fist connected again with   
his abdomen, "...a helpless girl?"  
  
Buffy's knuckles fell on the man's mask with the force of a hammer, splintering   
it with a sound of broken china.  
  
Both the man and Buffy let themselves fall backwards at the same time, rolling   
over their shoulders and regaining their vertical positions and, in the Slayer's   
case, her weapon.  
  
With a confident smile, Buffy attacked the masked stranger with a crescent kick   
followed by a roundhouse and a high kick to his chest, that sent the man   
stumbling back, until he collided with one of the rest area's couches and fell   
onto it, letting out a muffled grunt.  
  
Moving with a bone-breaking strike of her Kendo sword, the Immortal vampire   
Slayer jumped onto the couch, straddling the fallen man's chest with her legs.  
  
Barely one millisecond before it hit home, the man simply moved away and Buffy's   
blow got lost on the arm of the seat, at the same time that her own momentum   
left her precariously hanging on the edge of the couch.  
  
"Oh, oooooh," she said, trying to regain her equilibrium and failing miserably.   
The blonde Slayer fell forward and closed her eyes, expecting the painful impact   
of her body against the hard floor.  
  
Instead, her fall was miraculously short, because the stranger raised his right   
foot and, bending his leg, placed the sole of his foot on Buffy's chest,   
stopping her.  
  
Surprised because of the sudden halt in her descent, the Slayer opened one of   
her eyes first and then the other, looking down at the masked man that, still   
lying on his back over the couch, was holding her on her feet. "Umm, thanks... I   
guess."  
  
The masked stranger tilted his head slightly to one side, as in saying 'you're   
welcome', and then pushed her back suddenly with all his strength.  
  
Buffy flew back over the couch for a distance of almost ten feet (shouting a   
very colorful and unladylike word) and landed on her back painfully, feeling at   
least one of her ribs breaking with the impact.  
  
The blonde Slayer groaned and twisted in pain, seemingly unable to regain her   
feet. That, however, didn't seem to impress her attacker who, after having   
nimbly propped himself up, took hold of the couch's back and flew in the air,   
aiming a devastating stomp to the girl's laying head.  
  
With a groan of protest, Buffy rolled away at the last possible second and spun   
on the ground, quickly regaining her feet.  
  
"Boy," she said, shaking her head to clear up her dizziness, "you're beginning   
to piss me off."  
  
The man tilted his head to the side once more. The broken lips of the mask were   
still smiling, mocking her.  
  
Buffy let out a war cry and charged against the man like an unleashed demon,   
attacking him with her Kendo sword and letting fall a rain of hard blows over   
him so quick, that the man had almost to time to block them with his forearms   
and knees.  
  
Buffy began to push him back, feeling with satisfaction how her strikes hit home   
one by one. She hit him fast and hard, raining blows on his arms, shoulders and   
thighs that had to be really painful, establishing a rhythm and succeeding in   
making the man fall into it.  
  
Slash to the head, knock to the shoulder, feint to the midriff and then slash to   
the upper thigh. And then once more. Quicker. And once more. Quicker.  
  
The stranger was sweating bullets to stop her attack and very slowly, almost   
unconsciously, backpedaling. At that very instant, Buffy knew that the fight was   
hers.   
  
Slash to the head. And the man blocked it with his forearm. Knock to the   
shoulder. And the man twisted his waist to dodge it. Feint to the midriff and   
slash to upper thigh.  
  
And, when the man bent his leg to block the blow with his tibia, Buffy changed   
the trajectory of the strike, turning it into an stinger attack and hitting him   
in the gut with the point of her wooden Kendo sword.  
  
The man grunted, and folded over in pain. Buffy made him stand up with a   
crescent kick to his face and the stranger, his mask now turned into a web of   
cracks and broken pieces of china, collided with the nearest wall. Buffy smiled.  
  
"There can be only one," she said viciously. The blonde Slayer raised her Kendo   
sword and traced an ample and deadly arch to his face, that carried enough force   
to rip the man's head from his shoulders.  
  
What happened afterwards, to Buffy's eyes, was in very slow motion.  
  
The man spun like a twister and, just when her wooden sword should have collided   
against his neck, he was with his back to her chest, grabbing her by her wrist.  
  
Using her own momentum, the stranger made her spin around and smashed her   
against the wall, completing a 360 degree spin and ripping the sword from her   
hands. A quarter of second later, it was she who was the target of a   
head-ripping blow.  
  
Then, the thundering sound of a gunshot ripped the air and the wooden blade of   
the Kendo practically exploded into a cloud of splinters. Tumbling back with the   
force of his lost strike, the masked man looked in astonishment at his weapon,   
now nothing more than a few inches of splintered wood protruding from a sword's   
guard and handle.  
  
Then, both he and his intended victim, turned to face the source of the gunshot.  
  
Cordelia Chase, with her long and smooth legs slightly separated and firmly   
anchored to the ground, comfortably holding a compact, smoking and unwavering   
Glock 26 in a Weaver position as if she had been born with it in her hands, was   
truly a sight to behold.  
  
Beside her, Willow was looking alternately at the two fighters and her brunette   
friend, apparently trying to decide who looked more dangerous.  
  
"Now, mister," Cordy said, aiming at him with the gun, "drop that thing and put   
your hands where I can see them."  
  
The man promptly did as he was told, letting the remains of Buffy's Kendo sword   
fall to the ground and raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender.  
  
"And step back away from my friend, before I put a little hole in that thing you   
call a face," Cordelia ordered him.  
  
"I'd rather you didn't do that, Cordy," the muffled voice of the man came. "I   
like it how it is right now."  
  
Cordelia arched her brow in surprise, and looked briefly at her two friends. The   
expressions on their faces told her that they had also recognized that slightly   
accented and well-modulated voice of the stranger.  
  
"Michael?" she asked with incredulity.  
  
The stranger first took off his hood, allowing them to see his short and   
abundant light brown hair; and then, making a show out of it, he took off the   
mask, finally showing his attractive features and the ever-present smirk of   
laughter at the corner of his generous mouth.  
  
"The one and only, mes cheres," he said, making an elegant bow.  
  
Then, somewhere above them, somebody began to clap and cheer. As one, and still   
with their mouths wide open, Cordelia, Buffy and Willow raised their eyes to the   
high ceiling of the warehouse.   
  
Only to find the rest of the Archangels comfortably sitting on a girder looking   
down at them – and clapping as if they had just watched a good show.  
  
"Bravo!" Xander exclaimed while Spike, who was sitting beside him, brought two   
fingers to his mouth and let out a long whistle of admiration. "Great!"  
  
"Once more!" the bleached-hair vampire exclaimed, clapping like mad. "Now sans   
clothes!"  
  
Xander elbowed him and Spike barely kept his equilibrium, comically shaking his   
arms and provoking Rachel and Crystal's laughter. Finally, both the dark-haired   
boy and the red-haired witch jumped from their sitting place and floated down   
like a pair of feathers while the brunette Immortal and the blonde vampire   
agilely descended, using the metallic vertical girders that supported the high   
ceiling.  
  
"I have to say that it's been a nice show. Once again, bravo," Xander said when   
he finally was on the floor, walking to Cordelia and clapping softly. "Now, I'd   
like to know – since when have you been packing heat?"  
  
The brunette young woman just raised one eyebrow coolly at him, and blew softly   
at the smoke still coming from her gun's barrel.  
  
"You should know that better than anyone, Xander," she said, sending a wicked   
look to him.  
  
The young vampire just smiled and took her into his arms, kissing her long, slow   
and lovingly. Spike, who had quickly walked to Willow, just snorted and grimaced   
with distaste. "Bloody hell, look at that."  
  
Willow looked at the couple, still sucking some serious face, and then at the   
British vampire with a little frown. "Look at what?"  
  
"At them," Spike explained, still grimacing. "At 'ow they're still in that first   
romantic phase, livin' in their own world – so full o' music and nice colors,   
bloody well oblivious to the rest o' the world. It's nauseating."  
  
Still frowning, the young apprentice of Wicca looked once more at the couple and   
then back again at the vampire.  
  
"Yeah," she nodded, copying his expression of distaste, "I'm going to yak."  
  
"You OK, Buffy?" Rachel asked the Slayer, noticing that she was still leaning   
against the wall, looking at all of them as if they were a bunch of gerbils   
claiming dominance over the world. "You seem a little pale-faced."  
  
The Slayer looked at her with incredulity. "You're all crazy," she finally   
stated. "What the hell has all this been about?"  
  
The brunette Immortal and the French one exchanged a quick and amused look.   
"Buffy," she finally said, "do you remember when I told you that you'd end up   
hating Michael's bones?"  
  
The blonde Slayer nodded slightly and Rachel patted her pitifully on the   
shoulder, offering her a comprehensive hug. "Welcome to the beginning of your   
everlasting nightmare, dear."  
  
Buffy pouted, horrified, and let out a miserable groan. "So, this is what he   
calls a training session?"  
  
"Training session?" Michael let out a dry, almost maniacal laugh and looked at   
her with his best Norman Bates impersonation. "No, ma chèrie, this has just been   
a small workout. The training session begins in fifteen minutes, I suggest you   
to use them to get as ready as you can," he advised her, turning around and   
walking away.  
  
"What does he mean by that?" Buffy asked, her hazel eyes still glued to the   
French Immortal's retreating back.  
  
Rachel, who was appreciatively looking at a lower portion of his anatomy, just   
lifted an eyebrow. "That you should turn around and run, as fast as you can."  
  
Buffy just groaned.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The police precinct looked far too much like something from out of a movie   
cliché, for Giles' taste.  
  
From the overstocked desks filling every available space, to the sweaty, tired   
and grumpy police officers moving from one place to another without order or   
concert.  
  
From them pushing arrested bikers with their tattooed wrists handcuffed behind   
their backs, to escorting skinny prostitutes with an excessive layer of make-up   
to cover their pale faces and way-too-short and colorful clothes.  
  
The middle-aged Watcher thought it was exactly what a Hollywood screenwriter – a   
bad Hollywood screenwriter – would imagine that a commissary should be.  
  
In the middle of that ocean of corruption and noise, of grease, sweat and the   
smell of black coffee and stale donuts, Rupert Giles – with his tweed suit,   
sedate tie and small, rounded spectacles – felt like an island of pulchritude   
and good taste.  
  
Even when he knew that the only thing that would make him look more British,   
would be if he took out the Union Jack and began singing 'God save the Queen',   
at the top of his lungs.  
  
The man on the other side of the almost overloaded desk, full of dirty Styrofoam   
cups of coffee, old files and scattered office supply material, was his complete   
opposite. Detective Edward Kowalsky was a man that was probably still in his   
early forties, but who had the overall appearance of one in his late fifties.  
  
He had little hair on his head and too much fat on his overweight body,   
especially centered around his waist, neck and arms. His short-sleeved shirt   
possessed disgusting circles of sweat under his arms, and a whole collection of   
food stains in the front.  
  
With a little patience, Giles was sure he could deduce what the police detective   
had eaten for breakfast and lunch every day for the last week. He seemed pale,   
sweaty, tired and, generally speaking, he looked like a man on the edge of a   
nervous collapse.  
  
"I don't give a damn about who said that!" he shouted to whoever was at the   
other end of the telephone line. "Did I... no! Did I... I said no! Did I say   
that? Did you hear me saying that? Because I was there, and I didn't hear me   
saying that!!! No! No! No!"  
  
The police officer banged the phone on its cradle, with enough violence to smash   
it against the desk's surface. Then he took the phone receiver, and smashed it   
down once again. And once more. And once more. Finally, he hung up.  
  
Det. Kowalsky searched frantically in his desk drawers, dumping their contents   
until he finally found a pack of cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands,   
before offering Giles a nervous smile.  
  
"Ex-wives," he chuckled, coughing with the smoke and searching for his   
opponent's complicity with little success. "I'm sorry, Mr... uh, I'm afraid I   
didn't fully get your name."  
  
The British Watcher smiled grimly before answering and taking out a visitor's   
card from his jacket, which showed only his name and a contact phone number.   
"I'm Rupert Giles."  
  
With his eyebrows completely arched, the police detective examined the card,   
turning it around between his fingers before finally putting it on the already   
crumpled surface of his desk.  
  
"Well, what can the LAPD do for you, Mr. Giles?" he asked without bothering to   
fake any real interest.  
  
Giles adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath.   
"I'm looking for information on certain events that happened last night in the   
uh, eh, a place called the Kobayashi Towers."  
  
Detective Kowalsky leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight, and   
looked cautiously at the British Watcher. "An official statement commenting on   
those... events, has already been released by the press division of the   
department."  
  
Giles smiled politely, but abstained from making any commentary about the   
police's official position, which he had already read in the morning newspapers.   
A column in the local section: 'Street Gangs' War Ends In Massacre'.  
  
It seemed that the state of denial wasn't the Sunnydale PD's private landmark.   
In their opinion, two rival gangs from South Central had decided to take a trip   
from their 'hood and resolve their differences inside one of the modern and   
still-unfinished Kobayashi towers.  
  
The reasons why they had decided to kidnap a school bus full of children on the   
way, were still unknown. And the fact that all the dead bodies found at the   
crime scene belonged to people that 24 hours earlier were living perfectly   
normal lives in ten different places of the country hadn't caught the police's   
attention, either.  
  
As said, your average, everyday narcotics case.  
  
The problem for Rupert Giles was that a reporter from the Los Angeles Herald had   
managed to take a photograph of the crime scene – of a pair of paramedics   
evacuating the dead corpse of a young woman, to be exact.  
  
The plastic bag wasn't properly zipped up, and the dead body had been clearly   
visible to the camera's lens.  
  
Young, female, dressed in a strange black robe and carrying an intricate   
medallion around her neck. The police said that it was one of the usual symbols   
of identity of a gang.  
  
But Giles had recognized it, the moment he had seen it, for what it really was:   
the seal of Ezrain, the unholy.  
  
Now the question, or more properly the questions, were: what was an ancient   
demonic cult that was believed to have vanished two hundred years before, doing   
in the darkness of the California night? Who had stopped them from doing   
whatever it was they were doing? And what was Xander's group's position in   
relation to all that?  
  
And that was the reason why Rupert Giles was at that very moment trying to   
obtain some information from a police detective, that looked to be on the verge   
of a heart attack.  
  
"I would like to know if there's any other information that has not been leaked   
to the media, Detective Kowalsky. Something, let us say..." Giles frowned   
deeply, trying to find the most fitting word, "...weird."  
  
The police detective looked at him with growing suspicion. "Such as?"  
  
The Watcher shrugged. "I-I'm not very sure. Something you would find, uh, out of   
the ordinary, so to speak."  
  
Kowalsky shook his head in amazement and looked at him, puzzled. "What I don't   
get is the reason why you're asking me this, Mr. Giles. Or more precisely, who   
you are to ask me this. You're obviously not a journalist and frankly, you don't   
look like..." he took a long and slow look at him, from head to toe. "Well, like   
anyone I know."  
  
Giles hid a cough in his fist, took off his spectacles and began to clean them   
with an almost absent-minded expression. "W-well, I'm a specialist in abnormal   
psychology, and an usual collaborator of the Sunnydale PD."  
  
Well, that was only a half-lie. After all, it would be difficult to find a more   
abnormal mind than the one of a demon or a vampire, and he was practically a   
specialist on them. And he collaborated with the Sunnydale PD, even if it was   
without their consent or knowledge.  
  
"Sunnydale?" the police detective asked with a deep expression of surprise.   
"Nothing ever happens there. God, I'd love to live in a sleepy town like that."  
  
The Watcher had to make an effort not to snort. "Well, y-yes, it's certainly a   
very... nice place for living. The, uh, the case is that I have certain...   
personal interests in this matter. These last few years, I've been doing a study   
on the different criminal clans of the southern California – a sort of   
compilation, if you want to call it that."  
  
He took out the folded edition of the Herald from the interior of his jacket,   
showing Kowalsky the picture. "This symbol is completely unknown to me," he   
blatantly lied, "and I think it might belong to a new gang, or maybe a new   
branch of a pre-existing one."  
  
"I see..." the detective said, scratching his balding head and seemingly   
accepting Giles' explanation. "So that's what you're looking for now?"  
  
Giles shrugged slightly. "As I've previously said, I'm on the lookout for   
anything."   
  
The police officer nodded, taking a folder from the top of the pile on his desk   
and pouring through its content. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Giles; in the   
old days, when I joined the department, we had our share of problems. We had the   
blacks and the spics always making noise and causing troubles, but you know," he   
sent a twisted grin of complicity towards the British man, "there were always...   
ways to keep 'em straight. To make 'em understand who was in charge, y'know."  
  
Giles offered him a grim smile, knowing perfectly what he implied and wishing he   
would be able to tell him what he really thought of it.  
  
"But man, ever since they began playing with that damn crack, PCP and all that   
shit, making fast money and then thinking that they could walk out of their   
ghetto as if..."  
  
"Ahem," Giles coughed non-very-politely, cutting off his bigoted tirade.  
  
"Oh, yeah," the police detective said with a chuckle and a wink, "the walls have   
ears, and all that. Well, the thing is that I've never before seen anything like   
what I saw yesterday. Those guys over there were well-equipped, automatic   
weapons, all that stuff... I don't have any idea of who took the rug out from   
under their feet, but... they sure knew what they were doing."  
  
Kowalsky dropped a group of pictures in front of Giles and the British Watcher   
took them, examining the black and white stilled images with critic eye.  
  
To say that the acolytes – because that was what the corpses in the pictures had   
unquestionably been, before their existences were suddenly terminated – had   
suffered a violent and almost brutal death, would be a big understatement.  
  
"What were the causes of death?" the Watcher asked, flipping through the images,   
feeling a ball of ice quickly forming inside his stomach.  
  
The detective let out a long sigh, once again leaning back in his unstable   
chair. "Take your pick: bullet wounds, massive blood loss produced by cuts   
seemingly made by a long and extremely sharpened blade, evisceration and in some   
cases loss of one or more limbs."  
  
He continued, "Some of the corpses presented evidence of freezing, and some of   
'em had been shredded to pieces by an explosion. The cause of which, we haven't   
found any trace of any explosive material known to man. Do you know what that   
means?"  
  
Giles swallowed a thick knot in his throat, and had to make an effort to speak   
coherently. "No, wh-what?"  
  
"That the motherfuckers have access to high-class weaponry," Kowalsky snorted.   
"They're beginning to exceed us."  
  
"Yes, of course." If Giles seemed absent-minded right then it was because almost   
his whole attention had been captured by a close-up picture of a man's neck,   
which showed the unmistakable bite mark of a vampire. =What the hell is going on   
here?=  
  
The policeman's voice cut short his reverie. "Do ya wanna see the weirdest   
thing?" he asked, almost in a childish, conspiratorial tone.  
  
"What?"  
  
Kowalsky took the folder from the Watcher's hands and flipped through the   
pictures, until he selected one of them. "Whoever it was who threw that party,   
they left their calling card."  
  
The policeman offered the picture to Giles and the middle-aged man examined it   
closely. Nailed to the surface of a table with what looked like a classic   
sacrificial dagger was a Tarot-sized card, showing the effigy of a winged angel.  
  
A winged angel with a lopsided halo, a twisted devilish tail and a trident.   
Giles had the nagging suspicion of knowing what it symbolized.  
  
An archangel.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
LAPD Detective Edward Kowalsky watched with interest, as the Brit's back   
disappeared into the eternal crowd of people that seemed to be always   
surrounding his desk.  
  
He was thinking that, at least, somebody else seemed worried about that case   
apart from him.  
  
The truth was that Kowalsky would have loved to sink his teeth into a case that   
looked as juicy as that – it was one of those things that could boost his   
dormant career, to a higher and better-paid position.  
  
But the high brass was pressuring, and pressuring hard, to sweep the whole   
affair under the proverbial carpet as if nothing had ever happened.  
  
He could be an old, square-headed and chauvinistic cop, but the man knew when   
something stank to high heaven.  
  
Kowalsky sighed deeply and took out a new cigarette from its package, losing no   
time in lighting it and taking a deep breath of cancer-causing smoke.  
  
The thing was, he also knew when to shut up and look the other way. It was a   
necessary trait for anyone who wanted to survive in a job like his. He was so   
engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when first-grade   
Detective Jonah Whalls arrived, sitting down on the corner of the desk.  
  
"Whassup, Eddie?" Jonah greeted him, taking a generous bite of the bright green   
apple he carried in his hand and then munching it happily. "Who was the tweed   
man?"  
  
Kowalsky looked at the younger detective, almost out of the corner of his eye.  
  
The truth was that, with his elegant dark suit, mirror-polished shoes,   
fashionable hairstyle, his university studies, his good manners and respectful   
attitude towards his superiors, Jonah was as far from what they had taught him   
in the academy a street cop should be – but the older policeman liked him,   
nonetheless.  
  
Jonah was one of the new generation of LAPD officers that had joined the   
Department in the last few years. But in Kowalsky's opinion and contrary to the   
rest of blue-collars that seemed to grow up like fungus in the different   
divisions of the LAPD (with a special predilection for the Internal Affairs   
one), he was a nice guy.  
  
Jonah knew the street rules, knew when to look aside when someone was doing   
personal business, knew when to twist a prisoner's arm to obtain some info and   
when to keep his mouth tightly shut.  
  
By definition, he knew on what side of the line he was on.  
  
"Bah," Kowalsky said, removing importance to the matter, "just some Brit   
interested in last night's party."  
  
Jonah raised one of his eyebrows, almost imperceptibly. "The one at the   
Kobayashis? I thought it was case closed."  
  
The older cop shrugged, opening a folder and beginning to go over its contents   
with a patent lack of effort. "He just wanted some info about it. I dunno, he's   
some collaborator of the Sunnydale PD."  
  
"Sunnydale, huh?" he observed, taking another greedy bite from his apple.   
"Nothing ever happens there."   
  
"Yeah, that's what I said. Hey, you got plans for later? Wanna come with the   
guys to Mallory's and drown some beers?"  
  
Snorting with amusement, the younger policeman got off his partner's desk. "Nah,   
I can't, Eddie. Right now I'm gonna take a leak, and then I have to go to the   
courthouse. I have to make a declaration in less than an hour."  
  
Kowalsky grunted, as if in pain. "Ouch. The Martinez thing again?"  
  
"Yeah," Jonah rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to explain it? The guy   
just fell off the roof."  
  
The older cop chuckled softly. "The clumsy idiot. You take care, Jo."  
  
Jonah winked an eye to him as a farewell and went away quickly, losing himself   
in the crowd of policemen, arrested people and nervous witnesses, crossing the   
detectives' area and walking into the restroom.  
  
Once there, he shut the door closed and quickly looked under the stall doors,   
checking that he was there all alone. With his back leaned against the door to   
prevent anyone entering, he took his cell phone from the interior of the jacket   
of his designer suit, and quickly dialed a number he knew by heart.  
  
"It's Whalls here," he said to the phone, the same moment that it was answered   
at the other end of the line. "I'm afraid we may have a situation."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
There was a lot of things that Angel didn't like about his vampiric state. But,   
of them all, the one that he despised the most was not to be able to see the   
light of the sun anymore.  
  
So much time had passed since he had last been out under the shining rays of the   
daylight, that he had almost forgotten how things looked. The reflection of the   
fresh grass in the morning, how the ocean moved and breathed like a living   
thing, shining like an endless cloak of diamonds.  
  
How it felt to touch a woman's skin warmed by the sun; how, in few words, it   
felt to be alive.  
  
And, furthermore, it led to other, ever more unpleasant, situations, like the   
one in which he was currently immersed: walking the damned, rat-filled and   
awful-smelling sewers of Sunnydale.  
  
It was amazing, if he thought about it, but even without breathing, he couldn't   
get rid of the pungent, repugnant smell of the underground. And he'd better not   
step into one of the sticky pools of corrupted waters, oh no.  
  
If he made such a mistake, he could say goodbye to another pair of really   
expensive leather shoes – it was simply impossible to clean them afterwards.  
  
But finally, and thankfully without any incident worth mentioning, he arrived at   
the entrance to the Archangels' warehouse and quickly got ready to climb up the   
ladder that led to the lid.  
  
That was when everything turned into a rocanbolesque and surreal nightmare.   
  
A siren began to howl somewhere, deafening him, and an intermittent red light   
filled the darkness, disorientating him. "What the...?" he whispered, completely   
puzzled.  
  
The howl died mere seconds later and the flashing light stopped, bathing the   
tunnel in a blood-red glow.  
  
Angel turned around, still not understanding what was going on, and noticed   
that, both in front and behind him, a series of blue beams had appeared from   
wall to wall like the bars of a jail, effectively trapping him inside a space of   
less than ten feet of tunnel.  
  
The dark-haired vampire didn't dare to touch them, not knowing the effect it   
could cause.  
  
Then, to his growing surprise, a panel in the wall moved away and a metallic arm   
with an attached security camera came from the hole, focusing on him.  
  
The most worrying thing was that, besides the camera, the robotic arm also   
carried what seemed too much like an advanced version of a multi-chambered   
mini-gun, for Angel's comfort. The fact that it was pointing at him wasn't doing   
much to calm the souled vampire, either.  
  
"Attention, intruder!" shouted a voice suddenly, shaking the tunnels walls. "You   
have ten seconds to identify yourself before the automatic security system opens   
fire. Any attempt to run away will detonate the hidden explosive devices and   
traps. Ten, nine, eight..."  
  
=Automatic security system? Open fire? Explosives?=  
  
"...seven, six, five..."  
  
"Angel!" the dark-haired vampire exclaimed, with a high-pitched voice. "I'm   
Angel!"  
  
The metallic, robotic voice died for a moment and Angel noticed, much to his own   
surprise, that he was breathing fast and raggedly. He was about to   
hyperventilate, for God's sake!  
  
"Voice pattern verified," the voice said. "Please provide the correct password   
for access to be granted."  
  
=Password?= Angel closed his eyes and sighed. He knew that one, Xander and Kyle   
had explained to him that they were going to make some changes and that he may   
have to use it to enter 'unharmed'.  
  
He had wondered what they meant, and now he knew. "Is that really necessary?"   
the souled vampire asked, reticently.  
  
"Please provide the correct password," the mechanical voice repeated,   
stubbornly.  
  
Angel buried his handsome face between his hands, and sighed almost in   
desperation. At that moment, he wished to be anywhere but there.  
  
Then he coughed, clearing his voice, looked around himself to check that there   
wasn't anybody close enough to see him and, placing his hands on his waist,   
began to chant in a sing-song voice.  
  
"I'm a little teapot, short and stout," he sang, doing the childish little dance   
and feeling utterly stupid and embarrassed, "here is my handle, here is my   
spout!"  
  
"Password accepted," the metallic voice said automatically, and the vampire   
could have sworn that there was a trace of laughter in it. "Welcome, Angel."  
  
The red light and the blue beams were switched off and the tunnel went   
completely dark for a second before, over him, the sewer lid were opened with a   
hiss of hydraulic mechanisms like an iris and he was engulfed into a circle of   
artificial light.  
  
Shaking his head at the whole surrealism of it, Angel finally climbed up the   
ladder and stepped into the first level of the warehouse, practically colliding   
with Kyle, who looked at him startled.  
  
"Angel!" the tall Texan greeted him with a friendly slap on his shoulder. The   
dark-haired vampire just nodded at him, still not used to the man's sincere   
openness. "What brings you here, my man?"  
  
"I've come to do a little research with Crystal," the vampire said, making a   
beeline for the lift.  
  
As the two of them calmly walked to the elevator Kyle wiped his hands on his   
dirty towel, trying to remove all the dirt and the grease from them with little   
success. "Did you have any problem entering?"  
  
"No, no," he answered, a little too quickly. "Why do you want to know?"  
  
Kyle shrugged innocently. "I've just installed the new security system, and   
we're still testing it. Did it do anything weird?"  
  
Angel just shook his head. "No, it all went... normally."  
  
The tall Texan stared at him in silence for a second and then arched his brow,   
seemingly accepting it. "Nice to hear it. If you have a little time later, I'll   
introduce your parameters to the computer so it can automatically recognize you   
next time. By the way, Buffy and the girls are here, training and so..."  
  
The elevator stopped with a shake, and Kyle opened the wooden door. "I'm going   
to grab a bite. Do you want something? A soda, a coffee, a transfusion...   
something?"  
  
Angel shook his head, and patted his stomach. "No, I'll pass, thanks." The Texan   
looked at him questioningly and he shrugged, making a grimace. "My stomach's   
been a little upset today."  
  
As Kyle went to the kitchen, Angel took the opportunity to have a good look at   
the interior of the warehouse, spotting the few people in the world he could   
call friends or even family.  
  
Buffy was in the training area, dueling with Michael in a sword fight that   
looked it was taken directly from an Errol Flynn movie. Rachel watched them with   
interest, seated cross-legged at the border of the tatami and absent-mindedly   
petting a sleepy Elvis, who had his head resting on her lap.  
  
He knew, from personal and painful experience, how good the blonde Slayer was   
with a sword. But he had to admit that her sword-fighting abilities, or his for   
that matter, paled in comparison with the Frenchman's ones and his more than   
three hundred years of experience in fencing.  
  
Both of them dressed in comfortable slacks and cotton T-shirts and armed with   
wooden Kendo swords, Buffy and Michael moved like a pair of lightning bolts on   
the mat; combining an endless chain of blows, punches and kicks, slashes and   
hits, and generally fighting like two professional swordsmen.  
  
The problem was that Buffy seemed to be sweating bullets to stay at that level,   
while Michael hadn't even broken a sweat. He even seemed bored.  
  
"Come on, ma chèrie!" he exclaimed, stepping aside to dodge a devastating blow   
from the Slayer and smacking her on the ass with the wooden blade when her   
momentum carried her stumbling to the floor. "Equilibrium is the key!"  
  
Buffy turned around and, with a murderous look in her hazel eyes and a war cry,   
launched herself over Michael again. Nonetheless, the French Immortal just   
dodged her once more and swept her feet from the floor with his Kendo sword.  
  
Buffy fell down again and, when she was fumbling to her hands and knees, Michael   
leaned the wooden blade on the back of her neck. "Don't lose your head, Buffy,"   
he warned her, moving the sword to tap her under her chin, "or you will lose   
your head."  
  
Shaking his head and smiling at his girlfriend's embarrassment, Angel moved to   
look at the rest of the colorful group. Willow and Crystal were at the large   
table in the research area.  
  
Half a meter above the table, to be exact; both of them were floating in mid-air   
in a yoga position, their eyes shut and looking completely relaxed and at peace.  
  
=Simply amazing,= Angel thought, arching his dark brow.  
  
Spike was lying on a couch as long as he was, with an enormous set of headphones   
on his head, his eyes closed and his mouth wide-open in a silent snore. Even   
from that distance he could hear the loud hardcore music coming from the   
headphones, blasting so strongly that he feared Spike's eardrums were going to   
explode at any given moment.  
  
Still, he seemed immersed in a peaceful sleep. =Once again, amazing.=  
  
And, finally, he couldn't help but let a warm smile cross his usually haunted   
face when he spotted Xander and Cordelia on a seat near the bleached-hair   
vampire. The brunette young woman was sitting on her boyfriend's lap, and both   
of them were so engrossed in each other it was as if the rest of the world had   
vanished around them.  
  
On more than one occasion, thinking about the happiness that seemed to come from   
them when the two were together, he felt the painful and bitter sting of envy in   
his entrails like a very unwelcome old friend.  
  
Xander was a vampire too, but he had a lot of things Angel couldn't, maybe   
wouldn't ever have.  
  
He had the light of the sun. He had a soul that couldn't be taken from him. And   
he had the most precious gift of all, the chance of being completely and truly   
happy without the risk of becoming a monster.  
  
Was it unfair? Maybe. Maybe not.  
  
Xander hadn't all his memories, all the grief and pain he had caused for   
decades, all the numberless crimes Angel had committed, carefully stashed and   
piled up inside his brain.  
  
And he hadn't deserved all the pain and the sorrow he had suffered through the   
years. Nobody deserved that.  
  
Xander was his friend,ch to the surprise of both of them. He deserved to be   
happy and, finally, it seemed he was on his way to being so. And that made Angel   
happy.  
  
Or, as much as he safely could be. It made him smile, and that was a good thing;   
or, at least, was a change for good.  
  
"Hi," he simply saluted them, stepping out of the shadows that seemed to follow   
him wherever he went, and into the circle of light provided by the lamps   
carefully placed along the warehouse.  
  
"Deadboy!" Xander greeted him with a wide-open smile that was shared by the   
brunette on his lap. "How are you, Angie?"  
  
"Angel!" Buffy exclaimed, glad at the chance of escaping from Michael, even if   
it was just for a few moments. The Slayer ran to his arms and hugged him   
tightly, kissing him lovingly on the lips.  
  
"Please," she begged him in a whisper, "save me from the ogre."  
  
Angel just frowned. "Ogre?"  
  
"Where do you think you're going, petite?" Michael barked, with a frown and an   
annoyed expression. "You can have smoochies with your boyfriend the Soulman   
later, Buffy. Now come here, inmediatément! Hello, Angel," he added with an   
afterthought.  
  
Buffy whined, and hugged the dark-haired vampire tighter. "The bad French man   
wants to hurt me," she moaned childishly. "Help. Help."  
  
Angel couldn't help but chuckle and kiss the golden crown of her head, before   
letting her go. "Go on back, Buffy," he told her, "you know you need to get the   
knack of this as soon as possible."  
  
She just looked at him with hostility. "Traitor," she muttered under her breath,   
hitting him with a shake of her hips before walking back to Michael. "Come on,   
let's get back to the humiliation and pain."  
  
Chuckling once more, Angel sat down on a comfortable seat beside Xander and   
Cordelia's, turning to his two friends. "I had a date with Cris to work on the   
soul thing, but right now she seems to be... busy," he shook his head at the two   
witches, who didn't seem to have noticed his arrival.  
  
"Yeah," Cordy said, pointedly looking at the two redheads, "they've been like   
that for ages, practically since we arrived. Can you believe them?" she asked   
with that expression of sincere and righteous indignation that was so hers.   
"Don't you think it's very... antisocial on their part? I mean, they're just   
there, doing nothing, just... floating and not talking. It's so weird."  
  
The two vampires exchanged a quick look and a smile of genuine amusement. It was   
good to know that, no matter how strange their lives turned out to be, they   
always could rely on Cordelia to enlighten them with her unique wisdom.  
  
"As a matter of fact, baby," Xander told her, absent-mindedly caressing her   
folded thigh on his lap, "they are talking. It's just that we can't hear them –   
or their thoughts, to be more precise."  
  
"Telepathy?" Angel asked with admiration. "Is there anything you guys can't do?"  
  
"Karaoke," the younger vampire stated, deadpan. "We tried it, but Spike's   
rendition of the Jefferson Airplane was just too much for the rest of us."  
  
Angel closed his eyes and grimaced as in pain. "Yeah, I remember his singing   
abilities..." he shuddered, "... unfortunately."  
  
"Who's talkin' about me?" the aforementioned bleached-hair vampire said, taking   
the headphones from his head and stretching sinuously. "Hey Angelus, what a   
pleasure."  
  
"Spike," the dark-haired vampire acknowledged him, making a point of ignoring   
the deep sarcasm that his childe's voice carried. "A hard night's day?"  
  
Spike grunted, and sent him a murderous look. "I'm gonna 'ave a drink, you want   
somethin', Xand? Cor?" The two brunettes shook their heads, and the British   
vampire turned to his sire as he got up. "And you, Angelus? Anythin' to drink?   
Cyanide, maybe?"  
  
"Come on, you guys," Cordelia said, cutting off Angel's comeback. "When are the   
two of you going to bury the hatchet?"  
  
Spike and Angel looked at each other for a tense, silent moment.  
  
"Never," the dark-haired vampire said.  
  
"Nah," the bleached-hair one agreed, "this is funnier. Well, do ya want   
somethin' then or what?"  
  
Sighing, Angel rose from his seat. "I figure I can use a drink, but I'll go with   
you. I don't want you to spit in my glass like you used to in the old days."  
  
Spike looked at his sire in surprise. "You knew? Then why didn't ya ever say   
somethin' about it?"  
  
Angel shrugged. "Because I used to just spit too, and exchange our glasses when   
you weren't looking." The bleached-hair vampire looked at him aghast, and the   
dark-haired one patted him on the shoulder. "I'm older and wiser, Spikey-Boy.   
Don't you ever forget that."  
  
Chuckling at the antics of the supposedly two mature men, Cordelia turned to hug   
her boyfriend and relax in his embrace. "Do you think there's any hope for   
them?"  
  
Xander smiled warmly. "If there's one thing I've learnt in the last few years,   
it's that anything is possible, baby. Look at us, if you want living proof of   
it. It wasn't so long ago that we couldn't be in the same room without throwing   
daggers at each other."   
  
Cordy sighed, with a wide smile. "Yeah, the good old days. Don't you miss them?"  
  
"Sometimes," he admitted, bringing her lips to his in a slow, sensual kiss. "But   
I have to say that the current situation has its own..." he let his fingers   
trail along her smooth thigh until his hand was flatly resting on the curve of   
her ass, "...advantages."  
  
She raised a perfect dark eyebrow. "You're a pervert, Xander."  
  
He blinked innocently. "Me? I was talking about having an armed woman as a   
girlfriend. It's good to know that you can cover my ass at any given moment."  
  
"Oh, and it is such a nice ass..."  
  
He gave her a wicked look before letting a more formal expression cover his   
face. "Seriously, baby, what's the sitch with the gun? You know that all that   
'guns make me feel horny' talk was just a joke, don't you?"  
  
"Xander..." Cordy sighed, slipping from his lap to sit on the nearest couch. She   
had known that they were going to have this conversation sooner or later, but   
she hadn't expected it with joy, nonetheless. "It's not what you think."  
  
The younger vampire arched his brow. "It isn't? Cordy, sweetheart, a gun is not   
a toy. No matter what Charlton Heston or the rest of the guys at the NRA want   
you to believe, a gun is something designed with only one purpose, and that   
purpose is killing people. And accidents happen, all the time."  
  
"I know that, Xander. And I don't carry it because I'm playing or whatever, I   
don't even usually carry it with me," she explained. "The only reason why I   
brought it today is because I was supposed to train a little with Kyle. What I   
want is to..."  
  
Xander shook his head, confused. "W-wait a second. Stop, rewind and play that   
again, please. Kyle? What does Kyle have to do with all this?"  
  
She looked at him as if he was a little slow-minded. "Who do you think got me   
the gun and the permits? And before you get mad at him," she added, seeing the   
deep frown on his face, "you should know that it was me who asked him to teach   
me."  
  
Xander closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Cordy, I think I know where all this   
is going and... I don't want you to think that you need to prove something, you   
don't. Not to me, and not to anybody."  
  
The brunette took his hands in hers, and looked at him patiently. "I don't want   
to burst your bubble, Xander, but not everything in this world is about you   
or..."  
  
He arched his brow and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his   
seat. Cordelia let out a sigh. "OK, let me rephrase that. This is about me,   
Xander. I love you, and your love makes me feel... like nothing else has made me   
feel ever before, but there's some things that not even you can give to me. I   
need to do something to feel that I'm helping, even if it is a little thing."  
  
"Oh, baby," Xander whispered, taking her into his arms, wishing that he could   
make her understand that, to him, she had already taken the heaviest of burdens   
on her slender shoulders. To keep him whole, sane, and as alive as he could   
be..."I just don't want you to get hurt. Do you promise me you'll be careful?"  
  
She locked her hazel eyes with his dark brown ones and smiled warmly at him,   
tracing a cross over her heart with her fingers. "I promise."  
  
"What am I going to do with you, Cordy?" he smiled with a sigh, kissing her once   
more.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"We'll begin with these," Crystal said, leaving a little pile of dusty and   
ancient-looking books in front of the soul-filled vampire. "And when we finish   
with them, I've just received a new shipment that I want to take a look at."  
  
Taking the first one from the top of the pile and opening it, Angel began to   
flip the yellowed pages with great care. "Do you think we'll find something   
useful in here?" he asked without looking directly at the white-clad witch, and   
closing the book to recheck its cover. "'Myths of Ancient Pagan Mesopotamian   
Rites'?"  
  
Crystal sat on the opposite side of the table and crossed her slender hands over   
its polished surface. Very slowly, the book at the top of the pile floated down,   
placing itself in front of her and opening seemingly of its own volition. "We   
have to check all the possibilities, and it's better to discard the more obvious   
ones as quickly as possible."  
  
Her jade-green eyes looked at him for a brief moment from under her fiery red   
eyebrows, before returning to her reading. "You know, for someone who's more   
than 240 years old, you seem quite the impatient man."  
  
"It's not impatience, it's..." Angel sighed and arched his brow, helpless, "No,   
no, it is impatience. After so much time thinking that there was no hope for me,   
having this opportunity, this chance so close... it's driving me crazy."  
  
The red-haired witch allowed an unusual smile cross her usually cold features   
and patted the dark-haired vampire's hand. "Trust in me, Angel. We'll succeed."  
  
He could barely hold back a snort. "I wish I had your self-confidence."  
  
She smiled once more, much to Angel's surprise. Two of Crystal's smiles in less   
than an hour, it had to be some kind of record.  
  
"It's not self-confidence, it's the voice of experience talking here. Willow?"   
she called the younger redhead, noticing out of the corner of her eye that she   
was putting on her jacket. "Where are you going? I thought you were going to   
stay and help us."  
  
Caught red-handed, Willow looked around herself in search of a quick route of   
escape. "W-well, it's not that I don't want to, because you know that I love   
books and research and all that stuff, but... the truth is that it's going to   
get dark soon, and I have a date with Oz."  
  
She sighed, and shrugged helplessly. "You know, tomorrow's the full moon, which   
makes this the night before the full moon... and last time I checked, my   
boyfriend was still a werewolf."  
  
"I thought that he was able to control the change now," Angel observed, leaning   
back in his chair.  
  
"Yeah, he can provoke it and control it, but we still don't know how the full   
moon will affect him. You know, this is the first one since he got in control   
and we're still a little... worried."  
  
She looked around until she finally spotted Spike, who was again lying on the   
couch. "By the way, could anyone take me to Giles' bookstore? It's later than I   
thought."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire finally noticed that she, and by then the rest of   
them, were looking at him expectantly and put his Gameboy aside with a sigh,   
getting up from his comfortable place of rest. "OK, OK, is my car ready,   
Cowboy?"  
  
Kyle, who was perched on the back of a seat eating a sandwich as thick as a   
telephone book and watching a football match on the wide-screen TV of the   
entertainment system, nodded absent-mindedly without taking his eyes away from   
the screen.  
  
"Engine's cool and the windows are tinted," he managed to say between two   
mouthfuls, "you can hit the road whenever you want."  
  
"OK then," Spike said, taking his duster and putting it on. "C'mon, Red, I'll   
take ya to your 'airy-boy."  
  
As Willow quickly said good-bye to the rest of her friends, a now-refreshed   
Buffy watched in amazement at the strange couple that her red-haired friend and   
the bleached-hair vampire made.  
  
The truth was that in the last few weeks the two of them and Oz had developed an   
odd kind of friendship and it was usual to see the trio hanging out together,   
but it was still weird for the blonde Slayer to see someone who had been her   
deadly enemy not so long ago in so amicable a state with some of her best   
friends.  
  
=Life flows through strange channels,= she guessed.  
  
Shaking her blonde head in amazement, Buffy looked at her watch. Willow was   
right, it was later than what it felt and it would be better to go out and make   
a quick patrol before it got even later.  
  
"Well," she announced, "I'm going to go out and see if I can find someone who I   
can beat up, for a change."  
  
She looked pointedly at Michael, who just smiled back at her innocently. The   
Slayer wasn't used to competing with a better fighter than herself, and she had   
to admit that she was a little wounded in her pride.  
  
More, if she considered that Michael didn't have the edge of her Slayer   
abilities; no enhanced strength, speed and stamina – just more than three   
hundred years of experience, and an almost diabolical capacity for   
improvisation.  
  
Well, she was a quick learner – they would see who beat the crap out of who in a   
couple of months...   
  
"I'll go with you," Xander said, bringing her out of her reverie. "Seeing that   
the Deadboy has his hands busy with our resident witch."  
  
"You know I can hear you from here, don't you?" the dark-haired vampire asked   
him without raising his gaze from the book in his hands. Giggling, Buffy went to   
her boyfriend and tenderly kissed him. "Take care, OK, Buffy?"  
  
"You know I always do," she said, winking an eye to him. "And you take care,   
too."  
  
Angel blinked in puzzlement, and looked around himself. "Take care? Of what?"  
  
She just shrugged. "Oh, I don't know," she said while walking to where Xander   
was waiting for her, loud enough for everybody to hear her. "You could hit   
something and break your little spout."  
  
Angel looked at her in horror, opening and closing his mouth. "What?" he   
practically squeaked.  
  
At that moment, the image on the 100 inch plain-screen TV changed, and the   
souled vampire was able to see himself in the middle of the sewer, jumping and   
doing the little childish dance. 'I'm a little teapot...'  
  
"Oh, shit..." Angel whispered, looking for a hole in which to hide.  
  
Laughter rumbled all throughout the warehouse as the colorful group of friends   
saw the recording of the digital security camera, and the usually dark and   
haunted vampire putting himself to absolute shame.  
  
"You know?" Xander asked, patting his blood-brother's shoulder after putting his   
leather coat on and taking his sword. "You only needed to say the words. The..."   
he mimicked Angel's little dance, "...interpretation was all yours."  
  
"Who knows?" Cordelia observed, joining the fun. "You still could make a living   
in show business."  
  
Reddening to the point of his ears (which was a more than an unusual   
occurrence), Angel looked at all of them with clearly murderous intentions. "And   
to think that my name was once feared all over Europe..."  
  
"Ancient history, little Angel," Buffy said, kissing him on the cheek one last   
time and barely holding back her own laughter. "Don't get mad with the guys,   
OK?"  
  
Xander kissed his own girlfriend goodbye and he and the blonde Slayer quickly   
followed Spike's and Willow's steps, disappearing into the darkness of the   
warehouse's elevator. Checking that they were already out of hearing range,   
Michael elbowed Kyle softly, getting his attention.  
  
"Is Spike's car really ready?" he asked him in a hushed tone.  
  
Checking that no one around them could hear their conversation, the tall Texan   
nodded, taking out a little electronic device from the pocket of his jeans that   
looked like a remote control.  
  
"Ready," he answered in the same secretive tone, "do you want to do it right   
now?"  
  
Covering him so nobody was able to see the device, the French Immortal shook his   
head. "No, Willow is with him, and I don't want any innocent bystander to get   
hurt. Furthermore," he added, smiling evilly, "I want him to relax. Let the man   
grow confident and then..." he closed his hand into a fist and let his smile   
grow wider and even more evil, "...we'll strike."  
  
Shaking his head and looking at his French friend in amazement, Kyle shivered.   
"You know what, Mickey? Sometimes you really scare the hell out of me."  
  
"Kyle?"  
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Don't call me 'Mickey'."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
On the first level of the basement, Willow hugged Buffy goodbye and the   
red-haired witch got into Spike's aged Chevy while the bleached-hair vampire and   
his younger blood-brother talked beside it.  
  
"You sure you 'n the Slayer ain't gonna need any 'elp, mate?" he asked, trying   
to sound nonchalant while playing with the keys of his car.  
  
Xander smiled at his friend and shrugged. "Nah, what could go wrong?"  
  
Spike looked at him from under his eyebrows for a silent moment. "In Sunnyhell?   
Everything. Tell ya what," he added, opening the driver's door, "if the wolf-boy   
manages to stay un-haired, I'll let him and Red alone. D'ya 'ave your phone with   
ya?"  
  
Taking the little cell phone from the interior of his coat, Xander showed it to   
him. "I never leave home without it."  
  
"I'll call you then," Spike said, starting the engine. Then, after a second, he   
sent his younger friend a puzzled look. "Do you think this thing'll explode? I   
swear, if they try to play another gag again I'll rip their friggin' throats   
out. And that is not a figger o' speech."  
  
Xander took a slow look at the rusty frame of the Monte Carlo before shaking his   
head, dubiously. "Another paint-bomb? Nah, that would make it one too time many.   
Don't worry Spike, they love you deep down in the depths of their hearts. Way   
deep down," he added in a very hushed tone, walking back to where Buffy was,   
while Spike rolled up the tinted window and drove the car into the dying light   
of the evening.  
  
"What was all that about?" Buffy asked, curious. Xander just shrugged, removing   
importance from the matter.  
  
"Nothing, Spike and the guys are always like that. They blow up a bomb full of   
pink ink inside his car – he pours rat-poison into Michael's coffee and uses   
Kyle's email to subscribe him to all the porn sites on the web... you know,   
kids' things."  
  
The Slayer looked at him, horrified. "You have got to be joking."  
  
Mounting his bike and putting on his helmet, Xander let out a dry laugh.   
"Sometimes I'd love to say that I am, but..." he offered a second helmet to his   
friend, "...no such luck."  
  
Finally letting out a chuckle, Buffy climbed behind him onto Xander's Yamaha   
Vmax 1200 and, after carefully fastening the helmet to her head, surrounded her   
friend's waist with her arms, holding onto him.  
  
"You ready?" the young vampire asked her. "This can be a little scary if you're   
not accustomed to it."  
  
Buffy shook her helmeted head. "Don't worry, I'm used to riding with Angel on   
his Harley."  
  
Xander chuckled, genuinely amused and started the engine, revving up the   
powerful 4-cylinder engine until it was roaring like a beast. "I've seen   
Deadboy's bike, Buff, and lemme tell ya, that Milwaukee Cow can't hold a candle   
against this baby."  
  
"You're not going to scare me, Xand," she told him with a confident smile.  
  
Xander just smiled back, and turned his head to the main gate. "Consider   
yourself warned," he said with an feral grin, closing the helmet's black   
windshield.  
  
The young vampire accelerated, and the rear wheel of the bike slid like mad on   
the concrete for a couple of seconds, before the whole package was launched   
forward in the middle of a cloud of burnt rubber.  
  
Buffy's scream of panic could be heard even over the roar of the engine.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The back room of 'The Library', Giles' occult and paranormal bookstore, had been   
used during the last three years, right after the Scooby Gang's graduation from   
Sunnydale High, as the new and improved Slayer's central headquarters.  
  
Well, sure it was way smaller than their old meeting place, the high school's   
library, but it was also more secluded and secure. Not that they had suffered   
very many interruptions through the years in the old library, but it was safer   
to know that there was not going to be any misled student walking in the middle   
of some arcane ritual.  
  
If they needed privacy, all they had to do was to hang the 'closed' sign on the   
store's front door. And, et voila, they were effectively isolated from the   
outside world.   
  
The place itself, something that had barely been a small room to store goods   
before Giles rented the place to open his surprisingly successful business, had   
changed a lot through the years. The group, who used to spend more time there   
than in any other place including their own homes, made a living place out of   
it.  
  
It wasn't elegant, it wasn't pretty, but it was probably the place where all   
them found themselves most comfortable. And it was as full of memories as the   
old library had been.  
  
The closet, full of Giles' and Buffy's weapons, the table where they researched   
and Cordelia drew her sketches of the monsters they faced, the best of those   
same sketches and some beautiful portraits of the gang's members hanging from   
the walls.  
  
Oz's comfy green sofa and his practice guitar nonchalantly leaned against it,   
Buffy's tarnished training dummy, the shelves full to the brim with dusty books   
full of mysteries, dark creatures and ancient rites...   
  
Looking around, Oz couldn't help but smile and shake his head with amusement. If   
someone had told him not so many years before that he was going to be a werewolf   
in love with an witch-in-training and part of a gang that had taken onto their   
shoulders the responsibility of defending the world against the vampires, the   
demons and the forces of darkness, he would've laughed in their face.  
  
Well, not laughed, but he would have arched up his eyebrows very, very much.   
  
But the truth is that the world changes faster than we think and that, almost in   
the space of a heartbeat, your whole life can turn around head over heels.  
  
He couldn't remember ever wanting anything else than to play his guitar and   
become a good musician; maybe, in his wildest fantasies, even a world-famous   
rock star. But all that changed, the moment Willow Rosenberg crossed his path.  
  
Suddenly, there were more important things and the world was a bigger place.   
Maybe darker and scarier too, but it was a price he was glad to pay if that   
meant not being one of the faceless, clueless masses that walked the streets.  
  
Not knowing that their whole lives could end any given minute, if they made the   
mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
  
Suddenly, there were other things apart from the music, the practices and the   
gigs. There was friendship, there was love, there was hope and a war that worth   
the fight... and Daniel Osborne found himself changing, slowly but surely.  
  
Oh, sure, looking at his usually cool and unfazeable façade, nobody would have   
said so; but he knew it, he could feel it in his most inner core. And now he had   
all he could ever want or need.  
  
He had his Willow, he had his friends, he had a new group that would maybe never   
take him to Madison Square Garden but that allowed him to write and play the   
music he liked and wanted, his music.  
  
He had a future that looked promising, and that was more than what most people   
could say about themselves.  
  
Sighing, Oz rechecked for the tenth time the lock of the cage placed at the back   
of the room, the emergency shackles and the tranquilizer gun. And he found to   
his own surprise, that he was more nervous than what he remembered ever being.  
  
He had been expecting this night with anxiety and dread, almost since the moment   
in which the new developments in his state had finally formed in his mind after   
that whole debacle the previous month.  
  
For the first time he was beginning to enjoy his state of werewolfness,   
especially how he could enhance his physical senses to capture all the   
sensations, all the wonders of nature around him.  
  
You can't really say that you know how a rose smells, until you do it with the   
nose of a wolf. But he would gladly give all that up, including the awesome   
power of his inner wolf, to recover those three nights per month in which he   
wasn't himself but a beast controlled by his primal instincts.  
  
Outside, it was almost completely dark and he could feel the calling of the   
almost-full moon summoning the beast within him, making it hit and slam against   
the walls constructed by his will in its haste to get free. He looked with worry   
at the cage, and then at the entrance.  
  
=Where's Willow?= The cage was resistant enough, but it only had an external   
lock and it couldn't be locked from inside, which left him in a very   
uncomfortable situation if his girlfriend didn't make it on time.  
  
"Oz?" Willow's voice came from the interior of the bookstore, and the red-haired   
werewolf finally breathed in relief.  
  
"I'm in here!" he exclaimed, heading towards her voice. Willow, carrying a full   
brown paper bag in both arms, entered the room and Oz quickly helped her to   
place both packages on the table. "And all this?"  
  
Both redheads quickly and lovingly kissed on the lips, getting lost in each   
other for a brief moment before the young apprentice of witchcraft rushed the   
werewolf into the cage.  
  
"I'm sorry for the tardiness, but Spike and I made a quick stop to get some   
munchies from the local 7-11 before finally getting here," she excused while   
folding Oz's clothes and carefully placing them on a chair as the young musician   
took them off.  
  
Oz arched his brow, looking around them with interest. "Spike? Where's he at?"  
  
"He's still in his car, waiting for it to get completely dark before getting   
out," Willow shrugged and, before finally locking him inside the cage, took a   
last, slow and appreciative form at her boyfriend's naked figure. "You sure you   
don't want company in there?"  
  
Almost blushing at the wicked gleam in his girlfriend's eyes, Oz shook his head.   
"Wills, if this doesn't work..."  
  
"It will work," she corrected him, with a sureness she didn't really feel.  
  
"Anyway, there's a pair of steaks in the fridge," he said, indicating to the   
small fridge in one of the room's corners with his chin. "Put a little   
tranquilizer in them and throw them into the cage through the hole, OK? I don't   
want to spend another night thrashing and roaming around like a vandal."  
  
Nodding with a sigh, Willow kissed him one last time through the metallic   
lattice before Oz walked back to the further end of the cage. "Here it comes,"   
he whispered, raising his gaze to the ceiling.  
  
It was always painful at first, as if somebody had stabbed him in the gut and   
was twisting the blade inside the wound. And then the pain turned exquisite, as   
the wolf ripped out through him and came to show with a roar of joy.  
  
The physical transformation itself was nothing more than an external show of the   
inner battle that was developing inside Oz's being, as the man fought with the   
beast for dominance.  
  
Willow couldn't help but watch in wonder and fear, as the transformation hit him   
as it never had done before.  
  
The hair began to grow all over his naked skin, his ears became pointy and   
retreated to the back and top of his head, his whole face twisted into a snout   
as his mouth opened wide to show her the rows of pointed fangs.  
  
Werewolf Oz roared and launched himself forward until he collided full force   
against the bars, shaking them with the preternatural strength of his lupine   
form. As if in rage, he backpedaled and hit the back wall, foam coming out of   
his mouth.  
  
And then he changed back. The hair, the snout and the fangs retreated back and,   
for a second, she was able to recognize the human features of her dear Oz, even   
when he still was looking at her with fevered yellow eyes.  
  
"Oz?" she called him, walking near the cage.  
  
"Willow," he whispered her name in a growl, making it almost unrecognizable.   
"Don't get too-"  
  
The beast came back with a another shake of Oz's short frame, and then retreated   
once more before finally resurfacing, and launching itself against the bars with   
a vicious snarl.  
  
In her haste to get away from the vicious werewolf, Willow backpedaled and   
stumbled on the chair that held her boyfriend's clothes, landing flat on her ass   
on the hard floor. In front of her, the beast just growled and looked at her   
with yellow eyes that held no humanity or remorse at all.  
  
Willow just looked back at him with sadness. "Oh no, Oz..." Then she felt a pair   
of cold hands settle on her shoulders, and the witch turned around in surprise   
to meet Spike's blue eyes.  
  
"Spike? We hoped, but Oz didn't..." She looked to be on the verge of tears and   
the vampire just smiled at her with understanding, helping her to her feet.  
  
Then the little redhead hugged him strongly and hid her face in his chest,   
softly crying with silent sobs. Surprised, Spike looked around himself,   
wondering what to do.  
  
"I see, luv, I see..." he finally sighed, awkwardly patting her back. "Who   
knows? Maybe next time..."  
  
Still holding her and oddly finding himself more and more comfortable with the   
young woman in his arms with each passing moment, he raised his gaze to the cage   
and locked eyes with the werewolf for a second. The beast held his gaze and just   
growled softly, showing him his fangs in a menacing gesture.  
  
Spike felt oddly uncomfortable under the hairy werewolf's scrutiny and shook his   
head, trying to make that strange feeling dissipate before accompanying Willow   
to the couch, all the time wondering why he hadn't noticed before that her hair   
smelled like wild strawberries.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Xander and Buffy's vertiginous trip finally ended, when the young vampire parked   
beside the sidewalk and killed the engine, setting the kickstand with the heel   
of his right foot.  
  
The blonde Slayer quickly dismounted and took off her helmet, almost stumbling   
back in her haste to get away from her maniac friend and that diabolical machine   
of torture he called a motorcycle.  
  
"Are you nuts or what?!" she exclaimed, still shaken by the thrilling experience   
that was looking at Death's face from the back seat of a bike. "Xander, I swear   
that I'm not going to ride with you again, ever! Not even if God himself..."  
  
She finally noticed that the young vampire wasn't even paying attention to her.   
He was just sitting on the bike, with the black helmet over the fuel tank and   
looking somewhere over her shoulder. He seemed almost in a trance.  
  
"Xander?" she called him with concern. "Are you alright?"  
  
Very slowly, Buffy turned around to see what he was looking at with so haunted   
an expression on his pale face. When she finally understood where they were, she   
wished she could kick her own ass for not paying attention to where they had   
been heading all this time.  
  
But then, she had been more worried about how painful it would be to crash   
against a wall at 120 mph and die in an explosion of fire and smoke, than to   
check on their destination.  
  
They were in one of those usual suburban neighborhoods so typical of southern   
California, a nice place to settle down with your family and live the best days   
of your life in blissful peace.   
  
Identical two-storey houses on each side of the street, surrounded by wooden   
picket fences, garages for two vehicles and a nice yard where the kids could   
play in the safe light of day.   
  
Lawns that the fathers could mow on the weekends. Gardens the mothers could take   
care of as a hobby, planting seeds and taking care of the flowers as they grew   
every day alongside the families.  
  
Somewhere, by definition, that you would love to return to after a hard day at   
work. The American dream, the whole way.  
  
And, even in those first moments of the cold winter night, if they listened   
carefully, they could hear the hushed conversations as the families in the   
houses got together for dinner, watched television or got ready to sleep.  
  
In all of them, except in the one they were in front of.  
  
This house was gray and haunted. It was empty, cold and alone.  
  
Slowly, almost in slow motion, Xander dismounted his bike and, still with that   
haunted expression on his face that made Buffy's belly cringe in sorrow, walked   
to the front gate of the fence.  
  
He opened it, noticing how the wood was dirty and cracked and in dire need of a   
good layer of paint – and the small door was practically hanging from only one   
of its rusty hinges.  
  
Before he could take a step into the narrow and dirty path that led to the front   
door, Buffy took his hand in her slender one, making him turn around to face   
her.  
  
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked him softly, offering him a   
comforting smile.  
  
He looked at their linked hands for a sad and endless moment, and finally   
managed to smile weakly back at her. "No," he shook his head, "but I have to do   
it."  
  
Nodding in understanding, Buffy squeezed his hand, not letting it go. Both   
friends walked slowly to the front door, passing the tarnished and almost   
fallen-down mailbox – on whose surface still could be read the name of the   
family that had once lived there.   
  
Harris.  
  
"I didn't know it was in such a bad state," Buffy observed, looking at the dirty   
walls of the house, the condemned windows and doors and the abandoned garden.   
"As a matter of fact, I don't think I've even been here since your father died.   
Oh God, Xand, I'm sorry..." she added, wishing she had bitten her own tongue.  
  
The young vampire just shook his head, not looking at her and letting go of her   
hand to grab one of the boards that had been nailed over the door to secure the   
place. "Don't worry about it, Buff. It's not your fault."  
  
He yanked at the board, ripping it from the doorframe with his supernatural   
strength and provoking a cloud of dust and rotten woodchips to fall over them.   
He carelessly threw it away, taking the next one in his hands.  
  
Kneeling down to help him with the lower boards, Buffy shook her head. "It was a   
beautiful house, I don't know how they could have let it fall into this state."  
  
Ripping the last board from its nails, Xander tested the lock of the door and   
found it closed. "Don't you remember where your parents hid the spare key?" she   
asked.  
  
"Yeah, I do," he nodded absent-mindedly, then he just kicked the door open,   
practically ripping it off its hinges. "But we're not going to stay very long,   
so..."  
  
Taking out and switching on the small, pencil-size flashlight she usually   
carried with her, Buffy followed her friend into the darkness of the house. She   
covered her nose with the back of her hand and cringed with distaste, at the   
smell that plagued the inside of Xander's old home.  
  
It smelled wet and putrid, and the air was stale because of the long time that   
the house had spent closed up and without refreshing. Inside, all the furniture   
was hidden under dirty blankets and a thick layer of dust covered everything in   
sight, giving it a musty, sad look.  
  
Xander shuddered at this image of the place he had grown up in, and wondered how   
something could change so much in so little a time. Was that the same TV in   
front of which he had spent uncountable hours as a kid and teenager?  
  
Was that the same kitchen table on which he'd had dinner a thousand nights, and   
breakfast a thousand mornings before going to school?  
  
Or maybe it hadn't really changed so much. Because that was the same couch where   
his father had spent endless nights of alcoholic oblivion, and that was the same   
seat where his mother had wasted days and days with her eyes lost in the void.   
  
A cigarette slowly consuming itself between her fingers, as if she were waiting   
for something, anything to happen.  
  
What, he had never known. Maybe another chance, another opportunity far away   
from here.  
  
The only thing he was sure of, was that he couldn't really remember when was the   
last time he had been really happy here. And that with the slow passage of   
years, as he grew from an innocent child into a young man, the place had turned   
from a home into just the house where he lived.  
  
Xander shook his head, trying to make the ghosts of the past vanish from his   
mind and walked to the stairs that led to his room in the second floor.  
  
"Can I ask you a question?" Buffy inquired, following him close.  
  
"Sure," he answered absent-mindedly, without turning back to look at her or   
slowing his pace.  
  
"Why didn't you tell Cordelia you were going to come to your old house? She   
would've wanted to come."  
  
They arrived to the door of his room and Xander placed his hand on the handle,   
sighing with resignation. "Precisely because she would have wanted to come. I   
have to do this alone."  
  
Buffy raised slightly her eyebrows. "And what am I? Chopped liver?"  
  
Xander looked at her over his shoulder, and smiled warmly at her. "You know what   
I mean."  
  
As she nodded silently, the young vampire swallowed a thick knot that had formed   
in his throat and, after taking a long, cleansing breath, turned the handle,   
opening the door.  
  
Whatever he had thought he would feel at that very moment, Xander wasn't ready   
for what was expecting him in that room. As his breath died on his lips, he felt   
as if somebody had kicked him in the gut – and he had to make an effort to   
control the wave of nausea, that was suddenly assaulting his whole being.  
  
However, it was Buffy who gave voice to the words of his inner turmoil. "Oh my   
God," she whispered with incredulity, "they didn't touch a thing."  
  
Certainly, it was exactly as he had left it more than three years before. The   
bed was still unmade, there were clothes scattered all over it and hanging from   
the back of his chair, his favorite sweater over there and his best pair of   
sneakers sticking from under the blue cover of the bed.  
  
There was dust, there was that rancid smell that seemed to impregnate every   
square inch of the house; and, above all, there was darkness... but still, the   
rest was just as he had left it.  
  
Xander felt suddenly lightheaded and he had to sit down on the corner of the   
bed, whose springs protested under his weight as they had done a thousand times   
before, and bury his face between his hands. Until he recovered some resemblance   
of control over his breathing, and the suddenly erratic beat of his heart.  
  
Leaving her flashlight on the floor, Buffy kneeled in front of her friend,   
placing one hand on his bent knees and the other one caressing the hands that   
covered his face. "Are you alright, Xand?"  
  
For a second, the young vampire was about to tell her the truth and just crumble   
into a sobbing sea of tears into her arms; but, instead, he just did what he had   
become so good at in the last few years.  
  
He just swallowed the sorrow and the pain, shook his head and choked down the   
tears, placing himself into a hard and cold suit of armor.  
  
"I'll get better," he just whispered to her, managing to give her a weak smile.   
"Come on, Buff," he added, getting up from the bed, "I just need to pick up a   
few things, and we can get back to the patrol."  
  
Nodding a little sadly, but understanding him nonetheless, Buffy stood up and   
sat down on the bed as her friend began to walk around the room, taking things,   
examining them and then discarding or placing them inside his coat.  
  
A book he had never finished reading, a pair of old CDs he hadn't listened to in   
years, his old Tweety wristwatch... mementos of the past, reminders of the boy   
he had once been and that she believed still lived somewhere inside the dark   
corridors of his soul.  
  
Sighing and trying to get her attention away from the sad show that was Xander's   
little trip to the past, Buffy let her eyes wander – over the posters still   
hanging from the walls, the books, the magazines and the comic books filling the   
shelves until something finally caught her eye.  
  
Practically right under her, there was something sticking out from under the   
bed's mattress, the corner of a magazine. Frowning with curiosity, Buffy grabbed   
it and yanked carefully, taking the magazine from its hiding place.  
  
"What the...?" she muttered, flipping through the pages of the old issue of   
'Playboy'.  
  
"Xander?" she asked in a low voice, showing him the centerfold. "Do you have   
anything to say about this?"  
  
Turning around, Xander arched his eyebrows and blushed. "Uh, oh, that... well, I   
have an explanation for that... yeah, I have..."  
  
Buffy smiled at him, smugly raising an eyebrow. "Let me guess, you read it   
because of the articles."  
  
Xander put on an expression of utter surprise, taking the magazine from her   
hands and flipping through its pages. "Does it have articles too?"  
  
Buffy giggled as he examined once more the centerfold girl, with a critical and   
approving eye. "No, I'm sorry, but I have to say that for me it was just the   
naked chicks," he said.  
  
Buffy just snorted at this and he smiled crookedly at her, discarding the   
magazine. "Well, I didn't say it was a good explanation."  
  
Still smiling, Buffy watched with interest as he opened the built-in wardrobe   
and cleared a spot between the hung clothes, before kneeling down and rummaging   
through the shoes and sneakers until he also cleared a spot there.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked with curiosity.  
  
"Here's where I used to hide what I didn't want my parents to find," he   
explained, while removing a board to show an empty nook in the floor of the   
wardrobe.  
  
"Things like this?" she guessed, waving the 'Playboy' magazine once more.  
  
Xander chuckled and shook his head. "No, Buffster. Things that were really   
important." Very slowly, almost reverently, he took a small wooden box from the   
interior of the dark nook.  
  
"It's still here..." he whispered more to himself than to anybody else, looking   
at the small box, appimately the size of a shoebox, with the amazed eyes of a   
child.  
  
Bringing it with him, Xander walked back to the bed and sat down beside Buffy.   
"Here," he told her in a low and conspiratorial tone, as if his parents could   
still hear him, "is where I used to keep safe the most important things in my   
life."  
  
Lifting the box with both hands to the level of his mouth, Xander blew softly   
over its dark brown surface, making the thin layer of dust that covered it blow   
away in a light gray cloud. Then, as carefully as if it were made of china, he   
placed it on his lap and opened the cover reverently, revealing its contents.  
  
Pictures. A professionally done and beautiful portrait of Cordelia in black and   
white, in which she looked as beautiful as Buffy thought her brunette friend   
could possibly be.  
  
And a snapshot of her and Xander dancing at the Bronze, taken without their   
knowledge during the last Christmas party they'd spent together.  
  
Their eyes were lost in each other, and the young love that they professed for   
each other was almost palpable in the stilled image.  
  
Another one of Willow, Xander and herself, taken during the first days of their   
friendship, when everything had seemed so simple and funny. Xander and Willow.   
Xander and her. Oz and Willow. The whole group at his last birthday surprise   
party...   
  
So many wonderful moments. So much lost in a night of blood, fear and rage...   
  
"I'm sorry, Xander," she whispered to him, her voice ragged by the sorrow and   
the tears that were slowly rolling down her cheeks.  
  
Xander looked at her with a frown. "For what?" he asked in the same, low,   
secretive tone.  
  
"For not being there when you needed me, the same way you always were for me.   
For failing you..."  
  
"Oh, Buffy..." the young vampire surrounded her friend's shoulder with his   
leather-clad arm and brought her close to him, softly kissing her on the   
forehead. "That wasn't your fault. I don't think it was really anybody's fault   
now. It was just something that happened."  
  
She shook her head in denial. "You died, Xander. You died and suffered   
needlessly, and that wasn't something that just happened. It was my fault."  
  
Sighing, Xander let the Slayer go and got up from the bed, passing a tired hand   
through his hair. "Look Buffy, I thought you would've learned this lesson by   
now, but I guess I was wrong."  
  
He kneeled down in front of her. "Listen to me very carefully, Slayer. Not   
everything that happens is your fault, or your responsibility. It doesn't matter   
if you're the Slayer or not, it doesn't matter if you're an Immortal or not, it   
doesn't matter the power you think you have or the weight you carry on your   
shoulders."  
  
He said then, "In the end... we just can't do everything, Buffy. We're not God."  
  
She looked at him through half-closed eyes and, as had happened so many times in   
the last few weeks, she wondered where her old friend was and who was this dark   
and somehow wise man in front of her. =We all change, but he's changed the   
most.=  
  
She sighed, and shook her head. "Only you could come here to face a painful   
moment and end up comforting me. What a supportive friend I am, huh?" She cupped   
his face and her heart warmed when he gently caressed her wrist and leaned on   
the palm of her hand, smiling at her. "I love you. You know that, don't you?"  
  
He just raised an eyebrow, with a smug expression on his face. "Is there anyone   
who doesn't love me, by any chance?"  
  
Laughing on his behalf, Buffy gently slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on,   
Xand, show me what else you got there in your treasure box."  
  
Sitting down again beside her, Xander flipped through the pictures until he   
selected one, keeping the rest inside the seemingly bottomless interior pocket   
of his coat. "Have I ever told you about my grandma?" he asked her, placing the   
picture in her hands.  
  
Softly shaking her head, Buffy examined the photograph closely at the quivering   
clarity provided by her flashlight. It was a picture in black and white of a   
woman in her early forties, holding a baby in her arms.  
  
"Is this her?" she asked, getting a nod of confirmation from the young vampire.   
"And this baby? Is it you?"  
  
"Right once more," he whispered with an open smile. "That was me... a long time   
ago."  
  
"Oooh," she practically cooed, looking at the baby Xander's chubby cheeks and   
lovable pout. "You were a cutie, and your grandmother was very beautiful."  
  
It wasn't a mere compliment; in Buffy's modest opinion, the woman in the picture   
was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen. She had long dark brown hair,   
matted with thin silver streaks at her temples that gave her a distinguished   
look.  
  
Her smile to the camera was wide, sincere and warm and her elegant, beautiful   
features were filled with pure love and adoration as she looked down at the baby   
in her arms, who seemed as happy and satisfied as a child could ever be.  
  
"She loved you," Buffy observed. An statement, not a question.  
  
Letting a warm smile cross his lips, Xander nodded, taking back the photo and   
caressing the smooth surface tenderly with his fingertips. "More than what any   
other of my own blood ever did. She lived with us when I was a kid – she took   
care of me when I was a kid too, she protected me..."  
  
Buffy frowned. "Protected you? From what?"  
  
The sadness in her friend's brown eyes was so deep, so raw, that Buffy thought   
that a cold hand was clenching her own heart and she felt tears coming to her   
hazel eyes when she heard Xander's response, barely whispered with shyness and   
shame.  
  
"My father... he, uh, he was always a bitter man, I never knew why. Whether it   
was because of me or not, because he got my mother pregnant at a very young age   
and he had to marry her and go live with her and her mother, abandon his   
studies, get a job..."  
  
The young vampire closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed long and deep. "I   
guess he always blamed me for everything, all his faults, all his mistakes and   
lost chances..."  
  
"Did he ever... ?" Buffy seemed dubious, fearful of the question, almost knowing   
what the answer would be.  
  
"Hit me?" he finished for her, shaking his head in denial. "No. Maybe there was   
a time at the beginning, when I was little, that he would have done it – but   
then she was always there to protect me, to shield me from his drunken rages.   
She..."Xander frowned for a second, as if he had just remembered something   
shocking. "It was as if he was afraid of her – as if, somehow, he was scared of   
what she could do to him if he ever touched me. And, after she went away, he   
never dared to touch me – as if he thought she still could reach out for him."  
  
He managed a weak smile for Buffy's benefit. "I miss her."  
  
She smiled warmly, taking his cold hand into her warmer, smaller one. "I'm sure   
that wherever she is, she's watching you now. And that she's very proud of the   
man you've turned into."  
  
Smiling with shyness, Xander let go of her hand after squeezing it one last time   
and rummaged through the contents of the wooden box. There were more things   
there, some of them whose meaning was obvious and others who were more obscure.  
  
One by one, Xander took them out from the box and examined them in silence,   
sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, sometimes looking on the verge of tears   
until finally, he closed box and, after caressing its polished surface one last   
time, got up from the bed, bringing it under his arm.  
  
"You're not going to explain me what all those things are?" Buffy asked, burning   
in desire to know. However, Xander shook his head.  
  
"Later," he just said, walking to the door. "Come on, Buffs, duty calls."  
  
Letting out a tired groan but smiling nonetheless, Buffy got up and followed the   
retreating figure of her friend. "OK," she protested, "but I'm not going to ride   
on that monster of yours again."  
  
Xander shrugged, sending her a crooked, almost evil grin. "Have it your way,   
Buff-meister. Like, you could always run beside it."  
  
They walked in silence, going down the stairs and through the empty, lonely   
house. "Buffy?" he called her when they reached the front door, stopping her   
from going out into the night.  
  
"Yeah?" she asked him, looking at the dark pools of his brown eyes.  
  
He smiled at her, warmly. "I love you too."  
  
Buffy just smiled back at him, and hugged her friend strong and tenderly. Then,   
without any more words, the two of them stepped into the cold, dark winter   
night, leaving the house as alone as it had been before and as it would be ever   
after.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Seated in the passenger seat of the huge Lincoln Town Car, Damon observed with   
deep interest as the little blonde sexbomb and the young vampire came out from   
the abandoned house and strolled to the black motorcycle parked in front of it.  
  
He shook his head in amusement. If there was one thing you could say about   
Xander Harris, it was that he always managed to be in the best-looking of   
company.  
  
"I could take both of them right now," he said, looking at the two friends as   
the young man put on his helmet and sweet-talked his female friend into doing   
the same. "They wouldn't even know what hit them until it was too late."  
  
"I bet you would love to try," Smith said from behind the steering wheel,   
without turning around to face him. Damon looked at the dark-skinned man out of   
the corner of his eye, before resuming his vigil of the two young people.  
  
"You think I wouldn't be able to?" he asked, his gaze settled on the frame of   
the young vampire straddling the bike and feeling a very familiar mixture of   
sensations flowing into his body. Anxiety, expectancy, envy, hate...   
  
Seeing that the young dark-haired man had finally succeeded in convincing the   
blonde woman into riding with him and they were hitting the road again, Smith   
started the car and began to follow the black Yamaha at a prudent distance,   
leaving the Lincoln's headlamps switched off.  
  
"What I believe is not important," he said, his dark eyes fixed on the bike   
ahead. "Our instructions are clearly defined, and state that they are not our   
prey tonight."  
  
Damon snorted, they didn't like each other and both knew it. "And you always   
follow orders like a good puppy?" he asked with deep sarcasm.  
  
Smith barely took his eyes from the road to gave him a sideways and depreciative   
look. "That's what they pay me for."  
  
Shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest, Damon stretched his legs   
with a tired grunt, thanks to the ample legroom that the huge Lincoln offered.   
"If they're not the prey, then why are we following them?"  
  
For a second, he could have sworn that he had seen an edged smile crossing the   
bald man's cold features. "Because they're the bait."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
After checking that the werewolf was sleeping peacefully inside his cage,   
snoring loudly thanks to the two drugged steaks that he had voraciously consumed   
about an hour ago, Spike went to the boom-box placed on the room's table and   
rummaged through the collection of CDs besides it.  
  
With a groan of horror, he saw that they belonged mostly to modern pop groups –   
probably the girls' favorites, like 'Backstreet Boys' or soft-pop divas like   
Celine Dion. By definition, people whose music, for lack of a better word, could   
cause him an immediate and painful death because of a cerebral hemorrhage.  
  
There were also some alternative rock groups, or whatever they called them these   
days. He thought he could listen to stuff from 'Garbage' or 'The Offspring',   
without having to kill anybody.  
  
But looking sideways at Willow's relaxed figure, who was lying on the couch with   
her back leaned on one of its arms and calmly reading a book, made him think   
twice about it.  
  
So, sighing in resignation, the bleached-hair vampire connected the radio and   
searched through the band-stations until he finally settled the dial into a   
classic rock station.  
  
"After all the jacks are in their boxes  
And the clowns have all gone to bed  
You can hear happiness  
Staggering on down the street  
Footprints dressed in red  
And the wind whispers Mary"  
  
"Hey!" Willow exclaimed with a sweet smile. "Leave that on!"  
  
Arching his brow, Spike looked in amazement at the red-haired young woman. "You   
like this?"  
  
Nodding with a wide smile, Willow softly sang along:  
  
"A broom is drearily sweeping up  
The broken pieces of yesterday's life  
Somewhere a queen is weeping  
Somewhere a king has no wife  
And the wind, it cries Mary"  
  
Smiling, Spike took off his duster and padded to the couch, letting himself fall   
at the redhead's feet.  
  
"I never figured you'd be a Hendrix kinda girl, luv," he observed, kicking off   
his boots before turning on the seat to lie face to face with her, his back   
leaned on the other arm of the couch.  
  
As the green sofa wasn't big enough to accommodate the two of them with their   
legs completely stretched out at the same time, both the bleached-hair vampire   
and the red-haired witch bent their knees, practically entangling their legs   
together until their sock-clad feet were touching.  
  
=Hmmm,= Willow thought when their feet rubbed together for a brief moment, =he   
really has cold feet.=   
  
'The traffic lights, they turn on blue tomorrow  
And shine their emptiness down on my bed  
The tiny island sags on downstream  
Cause the life that lived is, is dead  
And the wind screams Mary"  
  
"What?" she observed, mocking surprise, and looking at him through the small   
wire-rimmed spectacles she needed for reading. "Don't I look like a foxy lady?"  
  
"Will the wind ever remember   
The names it has blown in the past?   
And with this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom   
It whispers 'no, this will be the last'   
And the wind cries Mary"   
  
Spike chuckled, shaking his head and taking out a little flask of nail-polish   
from the pocket of his red shirt, shaking it before uncapping it.  
  
"I found this over there," he told her. "D'ya think Oz'll mind if I take it on   
loan?"  
  
"If you need to ask that, you don't really know him," she observed, staring at   
the vampire with genuine amusement over her book and not daring to consider the   
extreme weirdness that was the fact that her boyfriend and William the Bloody   
shared their nail-polish. "But I thought you only wore your nails black."  
  
"I'm goin' for a new look," he said, carefully applying the metallic blue polish   
on his nails. Willow had to make a real effort not to burst out laughing, when   
she looked at his expression of deep concentration, with his eyebrows raised and   
the rosy point of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Could I suggest a radical change of clothes?" she asked, the corners of her   
mouth risen in a sincere smile, wondering as always at how easy and natural this   
new friendship with the soulless vampire came to her.  
  
"All in good time, Red," he answered without taking his cold blue eyes from the   
delicate operation. "We'll go little by little, 'n step by step."  
  
Minutes later, they were sunk in a comfortable silence only accompanied by the   
music and werewolf Oz's soft snore. Willow was deeply engrossed in the   
witchcraft book that Crystal had loaned to her as a part of her new studies, and   
Spike was painting his nails. Absent-mindedly humming the songs that came from   
the boom-box, and softly blowing his fingers now and then to help dry the   
polish.  
  
"Can I ask you a personal question?" Willow finally said, trapping her lower lip   
between her teeth, yielding to a curiosity that had been nagging her for the   
last few weeks.  
  
"I'm straight," Spike just told her, without taking his attention away from his   
task.  
  
Willow blinked, confused. "Pardon?"  
  
"Straight, y'know, as in 'non-gay'," he explained with a somewhat tired sigh.   
"It's always the same with humans. They see that movie, Tom Cruise with long,   
blonde hair, Antonio Banderas exuding his dark sexuality and Latin charm and   
they go like 'hey, all vamps are bi, because they're so open-minded and sexy'.   
Well, lemme tell you somethin', luv. Not this vamp. I'm a fully, honest-to-God   
straight male guy."  
  
He blinked for a moment, rechecking his last sentence. "Well, maybe I'm not very   
'honest-to-God', but ya know what I mean."  
  
Not knowing whether to blush or laugh, Willow just shook her head. "Well, it's,   
uh, nice to know that... I think. But it wasn't what I was talking about."  
  
"No?" Spike looked at her in silence, a little puzzled. "What then?"  
  
Willow took a deep breath and closed her book, placing it aside before looking   
back at the vampire, straight into his cold blue eyes. "It's about your soul."   
  
"Oh!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes wide in understanding. "That personal   
question."  
  
"Don't you want me to do the soul restoration ritual for you?" she asked him   
softly.  
  
Sighing, Spike avoided her wide sea-green eyes, feeling suddenly self-conscious   
under their gaze. "Look luv, don't think that I don't appreciate your concern 'n   
all 'cause I do, but I'm perfectly fine the way I am right now."  
  
"Really?" she insisted. "I mean, wouldn't you like to be a little more... I   
don't know ... human?"  
  
"Human?" Spike snorted with amusement. "Over my dusted body."  
  
Willow looked at him mouth wide-open, because of the surprise. "Then why are you   
with Xander? Why do you help him?"  
  
The bleached-hair vampire opened his mouth to answer her, but then remained   
silent. The truth was that it was a mystery, even to him. Why had he suddenly   
felt the need to ally himself with a group of boy-scouts?  
  
What was it they gave him that made him feel good, to the point that he himself   
was turning into a bloody whitehat?  
  
He didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
"My reasons," he finally told Willow a little harshly, "are personal ones."  
  
The redhead considered that for a second, completely unsatisfied. She knew that   
any effort to make him talk to her about that matter would be in vain, at least   
for that night.  
  
But the conversation was far from over. She was resolved to make that man –   
vampire – open himself up to her, explain to her why he seemed to be the one who   
was the most insecure of his own change to the side of good.  
  
Her own reasons to do this were also a mystery to her.  
  
So, she just took her book and resumed her reading. "OK then," she whispered,   
without looking at him again.  
  
For an endless moment, Spike just watched as the young redhead read her book.   
Then, in a completely childish voice he called to her, "Red?"  
  
"Yeah, Spike?" she answered, still without looking back at him.  
  
"Are we still cool?"  
  
She stared at him over the top her book for a second, before letting a sweet and   
warm smile cross her lips. "Yeah," she answered as if she was still considering   
it, "we're cool."  
  
Pleased, Spike nodded and smiled back, wondering why the bloody hell it was so   
important for him to see her smile.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep..." Xander softly quoted, almost to   
himself, as Buffy and he patrolled along the dark cemetery, slowly walking   
through the tall cypresses and weeping willows.  
  
The Slayer looked at him with curiosity and smiled. "You're full of surprises,   
Xandman," she observed. "When did you began to like poetry?"  
  
The young vampire shrugged. "It's a side-effect of living with a guy that was   
born back when even the idea of TV was considered heresy. You have two options   
to distract yourself when you're one of Michael's pupils; you read, or you train   
until your hands bleed."  
  
"Don't remind me," she pouted, stretching her limbs with a grunt. "I thought   
that being Immortal, I wouldn't have worry about cramps or over-exertion   
anymore."  
  
Xander chuckled. "Yeah, this Immortality thing can be pretty tricky sometimes.   
Anyway, you should be grateful – Michael is going pretty soft on you."  
  
She looked at her friend in astonishment. "Soft? You call that soft?"  
  
He shrugged. "Yeah, you're quite well trained already – and he knows that, so   
he's just... perfecting you. You shoulda seen what he did to me at the   
beginning, when I had no idea of what to do with a sword and I was barely able   
to distinguish my left from my right."  
  
He shook his head but smiled, remembering the past with affection. "There were   
days that I wanted nothing more than to run away from him as far as I could –   
but I was so tired, that I didn't have the strength to do anything more than to   
fall down on my bed."  
  
He chuckled, still smiling that way that was only his. "The man is an ogre, but   
you gotta love him anyway."  
  
Smiling, the Slayer looked around them, not finding anything interesting enough.   
"This looks pretty dead. What do you want to do?" she asked him. "Do you want to   
go to another graveyard, visit Willy's Place, what?"  
  
Xander looked around too and frowned, considering his options. Then something   
caught his eye, as he noticed where they really were. "Could we do one last   
thing before heading out?" he asked, almost absent-mindedly.  
  
Buffy shrugged. "Sure, it's not as if I had something better to do." She   
frowned, noticing what she had just said. "Which reminds me once more, that I   
have to get a real life apart from this one."  
  
Chuckling at her pout, Xander strolled with a comfortable pace as they moved in   
silence between the amazingly wide ocean of graves and the headstones like a   
pair of shadows until they reached one precise headstone, in front of one   
precise grave.  
  
Kneeling down, Xander automatically began cleaning the fallen leaves from   
Jesse's grave, not really thinking about it – as Buffy waited behind him, giving   
her friend a little privacy.  
  
"I would've brought ya flowers," he said with a frown and then smiled at the   
stone, "but I figure that you don't really like that kind of girly thing, huh,   
Jesse?" His smile was wide, but his voice was ragged and it was obvious to the   
blonde Slayer that her friend was fighting down tears.  
  
"But I do have something for you," he said, wiping a blood-red tear from the   
corner of his eye.  
  
Yanking at it, Xander took off one of the two silver rings he worn on his left   
hand and then rolled it between his fingers, looking how the white light of the   
almost full moon reflected in its shiny surface and examining the Celtic   
engravings on it.  
  
"I met this wise man once," he explained to his old friend, still examining the   
ring, "who was in very deep trouble, and I helped him out."  
  
"The exact details aren't important," he continued, shaking his head, "but he   
gave me this ring as a token of thanks. He told me that it was a symbol, that by   
giving it to me he made the promise of being my friend until the end of his   
days. And that, as long as I wore it on my finger, I could always say that there   
was somebody, somewhere out there who was my friend..."  
  
Xander sighed, and then managed to give a weak smile to the cold tombstone.   
Then, very carefully he dug a little hole near the headstone with his fingers,   
placed the silver ring inside it and then covered the hole with the cold earth,   
finally smoothing its surface over with the palm of his hand.  
  
"You will always have a friend in me, Jesse," he said, not trying to hide the   
red tears that were now freely rolling down his cheeks anymore. "I miss you,   
buddy."  
  
He choked down a sob, covering his mouth with his fist and then stood up, giving   
one last look to his too-soon-departed friend's last resting place. When he   
turned around and practically fell into Buffy's arms, the young vampire was able   
to relax a little in her supporting hug.  
  
"Do you think he hates me?" he asked her after a moment of silence, broken only   
by his swift sobs, his words barely a hoarse whisper in her ear.  
  
Buffy stepped back, looking at his dark, haunted eyes with puzzlement and   
confusion. "What? Xander, how can you think that? He was your friend!"  
  
He shook his head. "Yeah, but he... he never had a chance, Buffy. I, on the   
other hand, have gotten more than what any man could ask for. Now, I got a life,   
I got a family and friends... hell, I even have his dream girl."  
  
Buffy took a deep breath, and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. "I never   
got the chance to really know him, Xander. But he was your friend, and wherever   
he is right now, if he can see you, I'm fairly sure that he's happy for you and   
proud of you. The same way that I am, and that all of us are. You're a good man,   
Xander Harris, so don't ever forget that, OK?"  
  
Finally allowing a smile to cross his lips, Xander nodded and wiped his eyes and   
cheeks clean with the back of his hand, letting go a nervous, broken chuckle.   
"Well, after this, uh, girly and shameful scene we can get back to the patrol if   
you want."  
  
Nodding and offering him a comforting smile, Buffy allowed her friend to   
surround her shoulders with his arm, doing the same with his waist and the two   
of them began to walk back to the cemetery's main gate.  
  
Or, at least that was what they would have done, if the voice hadn't made them   
stop dead in their tracks and turn around with mouths wide open, and faces full   
of surprise and even fear.  
  
"Oh please," it said, carrying an unmistakable trace of laughter, "stay a little   
longer."  
  
Both the young vampire and the blonde Slayer recognized immediately that   
feminine, hoarse and deeply sensual voice, a voice that plagued most of their   
nightmares and that haunted their hours of vigil. A voice from their shared   
past. A ghost that both of them thought they would never see again.  
  
"Faith," Buffy whispered, her hazel eyes scanning the darkness to locate the   
former vampire Slayer.  
  
Xander, at her side, was practically frozen in place, unable to do or say   
anything coherent. His jaw hung open and he could feel his heart beating with   
erratic, unsynchronized steps inside his chest.  
  
A thin layer of cold sweat began to cover his whole body, and he couldn't help   
but shiver. =What's happening to me?=  
  
Then, suddenly, he had an incredibly vivid flashback and all the scenes of the   
night of his death passed in front of his eyes in an endless second.  
  
The cargo bay. The spikes. The pain. The blood...   
  
His legs were suddenly very weak, and he had to make a real effort not to fall   
to his knees on the cold grass and press his teeth together to keep them from   
chattering.   
  
He felt a burst of pure, unadulterated fear engulfing his whole being into a   
cold and paralyzing embrace and hugged himself, shivering as his mouth filled   
with the bitter taste of his own bile, barely able to control his dry-heaves.  
  
Scared. He was as scared as he hadn't been in years.  
  
And something more, that he just couldn't pin-point.  
  
"I'm up here, guys," her voice called them once more.  
  
As one, both the Slayer and the young vampire turned around to the tall tree   
that rose from the ground near Jesse's tomb like a twisted hand trying to grab   
the heavens.  
  
They then saw her, nonchalantly sat on one of the lower branches with her long   
and smooth legs crossed and a Chesire cat smile on her sensual lips.  
  
The former vampire Slayer waved at them, as if the scene was nothing more than   
the unexpected reunion of a group of old friends that had been separated for a   
long time.  
  
"What has this place got that we always meet here, Xander?" she asked, still   
smiling widely and balancing her legs like a little child. "Should we consider   
it our private spot, or what?"  
  
Not taking her attention away from Faith, Buffy began to slightly walk away from   
Xander, getting ready for whatever was going to happen and checking the young   
vampire's state out of the corner of her eye.  
  
The young dark-haired man was so pale that he looked like a ghost, and his soft   
brown eyes were wide open and shining with that glimmer that couldn't be   
associated with anything other than utter panic.  
  
"What do you want, Faith?" she demanded to know from the former Slayer, noticing   
the appreciative look that she was giving Xander from head to toe.  
  
Reluctantly, Faith took her dark eyes from Xander's figure and looked at the   
blonde young woman almost with distaste. "Frankly B, I'd hoped to find that you   
were six feet under when I came back. Since you didn't fulfill my expectations,   
could you at least keep your big mouth shut while I speak with my childe?"  
  
Buffy snorted, and stared back at her hard and with absolute disdain. There was   
nothing more she wanted at that very moment than to engage her in a fight, and   
plunge a stake deep into her unbeating heart.  
  
But she could almost feel Xander's shivering across the two meters of cold air   
that separated them and understood that, for some reason, he was in no way ready   
for such combat. At least, not at that very moment.  
  
"I'm gonna give you one chance, Faith," slowly bringing out a pointed stake from   
the small of her back. "Get the hell away from here and don't come back, or..."  
  
Faith just let a slow smile extend across her lips, and looked at her almost   
with contentment. "Always the same threats, always the same style..." she   
chuckled, shaking her head with amusement. "In a world that changes so fast,   
it's good to know that you can always rely on God-almighty Buffy to do what's   
expected from her."  
  
Letting herself fall backwards from the branch, Faith executed a complete 360   
degree spin in the air and landed smoothly on her stilettos.  
  
"Now," she said, crossing her hands behind her back and walking with an elegant   
gait to the two friends, "it's me who's stating the rules here, B. In the name   
of our... friendship, or whatever you want to call what we have, I'll let you   
go away unharmed. Just turn around and..."  
  
She had gotten enough close to Xander to pass a slow hand over his silk-clad   
chest, her eyes lost in his handsome face. Xander shivered once more at the   
contact, but remained quiet, still seemingly paralyzed. "...leave me alone with   
my Xander. OK, Buffy? This is family business."  
  
Buffy slowly shook her blonde head, and flexed her knees, adopting a comfortable   
position for the upcoming fight. "Don't count on it."  
  
The former vampire Slayer sighed with resignation. "I knew you'd say something   
like that. Well, I guess that killing you is not going to be unpleasant,   
anyway."  
  
Buffy snorted with fake amusement. "Killing me? You and what army, Faith?"  
  
Looking sideways at her, Faith let an arrogant smile fill her full lips. "I   
guess that would be this army," she informed Buffy, snapping her fingers.  
  
On cue, a groups of vampires – Buffy was able to count more than fifteen, at   
first glance – began to walk out from the shadows, and quickly and effectively   
surrounded them, full game faces on and growling menacingly.  
  
"Damn!" Buffy groaned, shaking her head. "When will I ever learn to keep my   
mouth shut?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	5. Part 5 of 5

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 5 of 5   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book I:  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers  
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD  
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer  
Brian Bosworth as Cecil  
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD  
  
and  
  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER FOUR: Hit and run  
Sunnydale, California. December 2, 2002. 10:35 p.m.  
  
Quiero verla bailar entre los muertos  
La cintura morena que me volvió loco  
Llevo un velo de sangre en la mirada  
Y un deseo en el alma que jamás la encuentre  
  
[I want to see her dancing between the dead  
The tanned waist that drove me crazy  
I carry a veil of blood in front of my eyes  
And a wanting in my soul to never found her]  
  
Solo quiero que una vez  
Algo la haga conmover  
Que no la encuentre jamás  
O sé que la mataré  
  
[I just want for once  
That something touch her  
I wish I never find her  
Or I know I'll kill her]  
  
Por favor  
Solo quiero matarla  
A punta de navaja  
Besándola una vez más  
  
[Please  
I just want to kill her  
At blade point  
Kissing her once more]  
  
"La Mataré", Loquillo y los Trogloditas  
  
  
Michael sighed with boredom as he rummaged through the contents of the small box   
with his chopsticks, trapping a few noodles with them and bringing them to his   
mouth.  
  
As always, Kyle's turn to cook had meant a quick trip to the closest restaurant   
to order take-out.  
  
But, at least, he could be grateful that it wasn't pizza again. If he ate one   
more, the French Immortal was sure he would start having pepperoni-face.  
  
"I should've gotten pizza," Kyle said, absent-mindedly feeding a portion of   
chicken lo-mein to Elvis, who sniffed it with suspicion before actually eating   
it.  
  
"Again?" Rachel observed, gaining an appreciative look of agreement from her   
mentor. "Kyle, we're always eating pizza. I'm from New York, I love Italian   
food; but one more portion of four-seasons, and I would have killed you." The   
brunette raised her box, full of rice, and shook it. "Open your mind, buddy,   
this tastes really good."  
  
Making a pout that looked utterly ridiculous on his face, Kyle leaned his head   
on his hand, idly pushing a paper ball with his fingers and making it roll over   
the table.  
  
"But I want pizza," he insisted stubbornly.  
  
"Well," Michael said, leaning back in his chair and winking at Rachel in   
complicity, "maybe this would taste better if you asked Cris to feed it to you."  
  
As both Immortals and Cordelia (who was sharing their dinner), comfortably   
sitting on couches and seats around the coffee table of the rest area chuckled   
softly, the tall Texan sent them all a hostile look. "Ha, ha, very funny,   
Michael."  
  
"Seriously, mon ami," the French Immortal insisted, this time in a more   
conspiratorial voice, "when are you going to ask her out? We all know that   
you've had it bad for her since... well, practically since we first met her."  
  
Kyle rolled his bright blue eyes and carefully looked over Rachel's shoulder,   
checking that neither the aforementioned witch nor Angel, who were still   
researching not very far from them, had heard them. "Could you say it louder,   
please? I don't think she heard you!"  
  
Cordelia shook her head in amazement, after taking a sip from her soda. "Kyle,   
I've barely known you for a few weeks, but even I've noticed that you like her.   
Come on, why won't you ask her out on a date?"  
  
The tall Texan sighed, shaking his head. "And expose myself to the shame of   
rejection? No, thanks."  
  
He looked once more towards the red-haired witch. "Not to mention the   
uncomfortable 'getting-turned-into-a-toad' thing, and it's not like I hadn't   
insinuated it to her more than once. No," he said with resignation, "even though   
I'd love for her to be my next ex-wife, I don't think I'm going to risk losing   
our friendship in the process."  
  
Michael arched his brow in amazement. "First of all, mon ami, telling her 'hey,   
baby, do ya wanna have someone to scrub your back in the shower?'... it's not   
considered a good opening line to start a relationship, anywhere I know. And   
about the friendship thing, well..."  
  
"Yeah, look at us," Rachel agreed, waving between Michael and herself to signal   
their connection. "Seventy years of friendship was more than what I could stand.   
If we hadn't decided to take the next step, I think we would've ended up in a   
padded cell wearing shirts without sleeves, if you know what I mean."  
  
"You were that desperate?" Michael practically snorted, taking a sip from his   
can of soda and then looking at Cordelia with an innocent shrug of his   
shoulders. "I was quite cool about – ouch!!"  
  
His sarcastic commentary turned into a grunt of pain, when Rachel's elbow   
collided with his lower ribs with a little more strength that what was necessary   
to cut off his tirade.  
  
"You OK over there?" Angel asked over the rim of his book, startled by Michael's   
yelp. Crystal looked at them over her shoulder, but said nothing.  
  
"Yeah," Cordelia told them with a radiant smile, "just a big-mouthy French guy   
that's been put in his place."  
  
Sharing her smile, Rachel high-fived her while Michael rubbed the sore spot   
under his ribs. "That was totally uncalled for," he pouted, wounded in his ego.   
"And you know I was just joking, ma chèrie."  
  
"Some jokes aren't funny at all," she crossed her arms over her chest, adamant.   
And looked away from him. "But if you want to consider our relationship a   
joke... go ahead, I don't mind."  
  
Michael sighed and left his box of noodles on the table, crawling over the couch   
until he was on his knees. Then he put his palms together and stuck out his   
lower lip, looking at his lover too much like a lost puppy.  
  
"I'm sorry, mon amour. I've been mean and cruel, and I don't think our   
relationship is a joke." He took her hand between his. "Je t'aime, ma Raquel."  
  
Rachel looked at him sideways and from under her long dark eyelashes, then,   
letting the shadow of a smile curve the corner of her lips, she yanked her hand   
from him.  
  
"Nice try, Michael," she observed between Cordelia and Kyle's barely suppressed   
giggles, "but you'll have to do better."  
  
Rolling his eyes and making a gesture as if to say, 'what have I done to deserve   
this?', Michael took her hand again. "D'accord, d'accord," he gave her a wide   
and sincere smile full of French charm, "seriously Rachel, I love you... and,"   
he added when he noticed her look, "I will wash the dishes for you tonight and   
your next two turns, oui?"  
  
She observed him through half-closed eyelids for a second. "Three turns."  
  
Michael was shocked. "Trois? That's abusive!"  
  
Rachel weighed his options in her hands, as they were a set of scales. "Three   
turns. No sex for a month. Three turns. No sex..."  
  
"OK, OK, you win, Rach!" he fell down on the sofa, shaking his head in defeat.   
"I think I'm losing my touch in my old age."  
  
Smiling at her new friends' antics, Cordelia looked at her watch, checking the   
hour. "It's getting a little late. Do you think Xander and Buffy will be OK?"  
  
Kyle shrugged. "Why would they be any another way? You worry too much, Cordy.   
They're both professionals, and they know their jobs."  
  
The brunette young woman hugged herself, feeling suddenly cold. Something was   
nagging at her at the back of her mind, making her heart beat faster than what   
was usual. "Yeah," she said, avoiding the gazes of the others, "what could go   
wrong?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
How do you define total and absolute fear? How do you define that sensation that   
seems to overwhelm your whole being, paralyzing your limbs, stopping the beating   
of your heart inside your chest and even the breathing movements of your lungs?  
  
What words, what name would you give to it?  
  
For Xander Harris, the name of that fear was Faith.  
  
Almost as if he was immersed in the middle of a surrealistic dream, he watched   
the exchange of words between Buffy and the former vampire Slayer. Not really   
understanding the meaning of their dialogue, because his mind was filled with a   
buzz that was like the static that comes out from a broken radio.  
  
And the only thing that made sense to him, was the strangest part of it all.  
  
He felt drawn to her, attracted to Faith like a sailor by a siren's chant. He   
tried to gulp down the knot that had formed in his throat but found it   
impossible, because his dry mouth couldn't form enough saliva to do the   
swallowing motion.  
  
He was cold. He was scared.  
  
For years he had wasted endless days and nights, thinking on what he would do if   
he ever faced her again. He had plotted a thousand different revenges in a   
thousand different scenarios, each one more brutal and savage than the one   
before.  
  
He had taken delight in the most bloody and gruesome details of the things he   
would do to her, to the point of being ashamed not of thinking them, but because   
of his own lack of shame.  
  
She had taken everything away from him. His life, his love, his family. In   
retaliation, he would take everything from her.  
  
Everything.  
  
But now, now that she was so close that he was able to smell her perfume, so   
close that, when she laid her hand on his chest, he felt the electric contact of   
her cold skin separated from his own only by the thin black silk layer of his   
shirt, now he could only think of how powerful she was, how right it would feel   
to pledge loyalty to her as her faithful servant.  
  
He felt compelled to do it. To be her slave.  
  
She was his sire. He was her childe.  
  
Everything he was, everything he would ever be, he owed it to her.  
  
He was frozen in place as the vampires began to come out from the darkness of   
the cemetery, surrounding them. He knew intellectually that he had to move, help   
Buffy, fight them as he had done so many times before. But still, his body   
seemed to ignore the orders of his brain, and his eyes returned once more to   
Faith's smiling face.  
  
She was beautiful. How was it that he had never noticed it before?  
  
Maybe he had, but he had been confused, obscured by other ideas, other images,   
other people. By that girl... Cordelia.  
  
Cordelia.  
  
His Cordy.  
  
Suddenly, it was difficult to remember what her face looked like.  
  
It was like being in a cinema, watching a movie, he could see and hear what was   
going on in front of him, but the rest was oddly circumscribed into a deep   
miasma of darkness and the only thing he could focus on was the former Slayer's   
face.  
  
=Beautiful. She's... beautiful.=  
  
"Tell me, B," he heard his sire saying to the blonde Slayer, "which exact part   
of your body do you want me to send to your Watcher as a memento? Because I was   
thinking that your heart wrapped in gift paper and with a pretty red bow on top   
would be very nice," she shrugged, giving her a smile. "Or maybe your eyes   
inside a flask, what about that?"  
  
Buffy grimaced with loathing. "Could you be more disgusting?"  
  
The brunette let out a dry laugh, that resembled a bark. "Sure I can! Believe   
me, Buffy, I've been practicing a lot these last few years. It's been long, it's   
been gruesome and sometimes a little tiring, but trust me," she offered her a   
saccharine smile full of perfect white teeth, "it's always been funny."  
  
"Please, forgive me for all this... scum," Faith said, turning to the rest of   
the vampires and pointing at them with a lazy wave of her hand. The truth was   
that none of them seemed to be the greatest thinkers of their time, they were   
more like cannon fodder. "But I haven't had enough time in these last few weeks   
to form a proper gang, so I guess these guys will have to do."  
  
"So, what?" Buffy raised one of her eyebrows smugly, taking a second stake from   
the interior of her jacket. "You've been busy sucking necks, turning all these   
people into soulless bloodsuckers just to come here and say hello? Wow, I'm   
honored, but I would've liked one of those fancy cards with the picture of a   
puppy more."  
  
The former Slayer looked at her sideways for a second, before centering her   
attention once more on Xander's handsome face. "That animosity is gonna cause   
you to have an ulcer, Buffy. When are you going to learn to relax and just enjoy   
living?"  
  
"I'll be very relaxed the moment you're nothing more than a pile of dust at my   
feet." Buffy craned her neck to one side and the other, loosening the knots   
formed in her backbone. The truth was, that she was getting tired of this   
conversation.  
  
"I'm sorry the soul restoration ritual didn't work with you, Faith, but I'm not   
going to allow you to harm any more innocent people. Especially if they're   
friends of mine."  
  
Faith blinked, confused for a second, and then let a delighted grin cross her   
face as she looked at her paralyzed childe.  
  
"You didn't tell them, did you, Xander?" She laughed out loud, shaking her head   
in amazement.  
  
"Am I missing some joke here?" Buffy inquired, not taking her eyes away from the   
circle of vampires.  
  
"You know, B? This is really, really funny..." the two Slayers locked eyes for a   
minute, and then Faith smiled once more. This time, her twisted, sick grin made   
Buffy shiver. "But it did work. I got my soul back."  
  
The blonde Slayer's mouth open wide as her brain processed that information, too   
slowly for her own good. "You what?" she squeaked.  
  
Faith nodded, and turned to her minions. "Now, could any of you do me the favor   
of killing her?"  
  
Buffy hadn't the chance of saying this mouth is mine before the first of the   
vampires fell over her with a roar, slashing the air with his elongated claws.   
Buffy just sidestepped him and hit the male undead guy on his chest with a high   
kick, making him fall backwards on the nearest one, the two of them ending up in   
a groaning shapeless pile on the ground.  
  
If there was something that Buffy liked about vampires it was that, no matter   
how many times she fought them, they never learnt the lesson and always attacked   
her one by one.  
  
Well, not that she was complaining about it.  
  
The next vamp received a roundhouse kick in the face and a stake to the heart as   
a salute, turning into a puff of dust. But the next one, who seemed a little   
smarter or luckier than the rest, managed to grab her by the arm and press her   
back, trying to pin her to the ground.  
  
Far from letting him do so, Buffy used his own momentum and made him spin around   
with a judo lock, making him land hard on his back and using his momentary   
dizziness to plunge one of her stakes deep into his chest.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, as she kicked and punched the attacking vampires   
away, making them stand back, Buffy observed aghast how an oblivious Faith,   
completely ignoring her, was getting more and more intimate with a stilled   
Xander.  
  
The young vampire was as pale as she had ever seen him, and his forehead was   
shiny with a thin layer of sweat. She also thought that she had noticed some   
movement in his eyes, as if he was trapped inside his own body and they were the   
only means he had to send out a cry for help.  
  
Faith was now practically hugging him, the ankle of her stiletto-clad foot   
running up and down the back of his calf. And they were so engrossed in each   
other, that it seemed that the rest of the word was nothing more than a fantasy   
around them.  
  
"Xander!" the blonde Slayer called her friend, landing a devastating blow with   
her elbow on the throat of a vampire. "What are you doing?!"  
  
It was a good question, for which he hadn't a clear response. It was as if   
nothing in the world mattered to him more than the woman embracing him, as if he   
couldn't remember anything else anymore.  
  
His mind wasn't working. His senses weren't telling him the truth. Everything   
was confusing and dark. He was trapped inside the brown pools of her eyes,   
trapped in her love spell.  
  
She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was...   
  
Buffy managed to dust a couple of vampires more, before one of them grabbed her   
by the waist with a bear hug; it choked the air out of her lungs, and he lifted   
her shorter frame off the ground.  
  
Swallowing a curse and a grunt of pain, the blonde Slayer leaned into the   
vampire's grasp and kicked another vamp in the chest with both legs. Then using   
the back of her head to smash her captor's face twice, she felt the thin bones   
and cartilage of his nose yielding under the force of the impacts.  
  
With a growl, the vampire finally fell down, but his grasp on her didn't weaken   
and the Slayer found herself carried to the ground in the falling vampire's   
embrace and colliding against it with a grunt of pain.  
  
She barely had the time to extricate herself from his thick arms (Faith may not   
have had enough time to properly instruct them, but at least she had turned some   
very thoughtful guys) and struggle to her feet before another thug jumped on   
her, tackling her again to the cold grass of the cemetery.  
  
Finding that she couldn't free her legs from her attacker, Buffy decided that,   
seeing how she was outnumbered and that her only ally seemed more interested in   
having a roll in the hay with his sire, she could let all her inhibitions be   
thrown out the proverbial window.  
  
As it used to be said: the greater the problem, the greater the remedy.  
  
With a cringe of distaste, Buffy plunged the stake down into the vampire's ear,   
producing a thick spray of dark red blood and gray brain tissue.  
  
She watched as her weapon stabbed him across the thin bones of his upper jaw and   
lower skull and the soft tissue, until the point of the wooden stake was deeply   
embedded into his brain.  
  
The vampire immediately released her as he let out a high-pitched scream of   
pain, yanking at the wooden weapon protruding from his head.  
  
"That's for you to keep your ears open!" she exclaimed, kicking him away, still   
lying on the ground, and beginning to feel more and more pissed off with each   
passing moment. "Xander! I need your help!"  
  
"He can't hear you," Faith informed her, her brown eyes still fixed on Xander's.   
"He's just mommy's little boy, aren't you, Xander?"  
  
She softly kissed him on his chin, and Xander didn't react to the contact. "What   
did they do to you, my love?" she asked him, nuzzling his jaw and the crook of   
his neck with her nose, placing slow and sensual kisses on his skin now and   
then.  
  
"I waited for you for so long, too long... did they do the same horrible thing   
to you that they did to me? Did they restore your soul?" she inquired, almost   
spitting the word 'soul' out with distaste.  
  
She continued, "Those goddamned saints, they don't understand how it is, they   
don't understand how it feels... but you do, don't you, my Xander?"  
  
She trapped his carotid between her lips and sucked at his slow pulse. "Mmm,"   
she moaned in delight, smiling at him, "a pulse... the more I know you, the   
better you are, Xander."  
  
Then, yanking at the lapels of his coat, she brought his lips to hers, kissing   
him hungrily, slipping her cold tongue into his mouth.  
  
Moments later, Xander began to respond, returning the kiss with almost with the   
same strength and passion.  
  
She was beautiful. She was his sire. He was hers.  
  
Forever.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
For a second it was as if the whole world was spinning around, completely out of   
control, and flying out of her grasp. As if something was ripping the most   
important part of her being from the very core of her soul, only leaving an   
empty, cold and bleeding wound in its place.  
  
It was as if she were dying from the inside.  
  
The dish slipped from Cordelia's soapy hands and fell to the floor, splintering   
into a hundred pieces of flying china. They scattered over the linoleum-covered   
floor of the kitchen, as the brunette young woman leaned on the counter to   
maintain her equilibrium.  
  
Michael, who had been beside her washing the dishes, quickly left what he was   
doing and placed one of his hands on the small of her back, supporting her.  
  
"Are you bien, ma chèrie?" he asked with concern, seeing the sudden paleness of   
her slightly tanned skin, her closed eyes and her general expression of   
dizziness.  
  
The French Immortal helped his way younger friend to the closest kitchen chair,   
letting her sit down and kneeling down in front of her when Cordelia hid her   
face between her hands, her elbows resting on her knees.  
  
"I-I'm alright," her muttered voice came from behind the shield of her hands.   
"I'm just feeling a little lightheaded, and my stomach is upset and..." she   
sighed, passing hand over her suddenly sick features. "I guess that I'm not that   
good."  
  
Still looking at her with concern, Michael pulled away some loose strands of   
dark hair, clearing her beautiful face and gently placing the palm of his hand   
on her forehead.  
  
"You don't seem to be feverish," he observed. "Have you felt this bad before?"  
  
She shook her head, and the French Immortal arched his brow. "Je ne sais pas,   
maybe you're coming down with the flu. Do you want me to ask Kyle to check on   
you?"  
  
"I don't think it'll be necessary," she politely dismissed Michael's offering   
with a soft wave of her hand. "It's nothing, probably something that I ate or   
just tiredness getting to me."  
  
Michael allowed himself a small smile, tilting his head to one side. "Xander is   
not letting you have enough hours of sleep, n'est-ce-pas?"  
  
Cordelia looked at him with a serious expression for a second and then the two   
of them burst into soft giggles, until the brunette young woman was able to   
compose herself, shaking her head. "I gotta admit that last night, we didn't...   
get a lot of sleep."  
  
She sighed and closed her hazel eyes, rubbing her forehead tiredly. "And my   
mind's been spinning like mad all day, turning over the same thing."  
  
Taking a chair so they were at eye-level, Michael sat down in front of her, his   
concern and worry clearly reflected in his dark blue eyes. "Something you want   
to share?"  
  
Frowning a little, Cordelia observed the French Immortal in silence, her eyes   
wandering over his attractive features for a moment. If there was one thing she   
was grateful for it was the fact that, in his painful exit from Sunnydale,   
Xander had had the luck to stumble upon Michael Deveraux and no other Immortal.  
  
"Thank you," she whispered to him, bending forward to place an unexpected kiss   
on his cheek.  
  
Michael arched his brow in surprise, and then let a goofy grin cross his lips.   
"What for? Not that I'm complaining, though..."  
  
"For helping Xander, for taking him under your wing and protecting him," she   
took Michael's hand in her slenderer one and squeezed it gently. "Thanks for   
saving my love, Michael."  
  
He squeezed her hand back but avoided her gaze and, for a second, he seemed   
about to blush. "Well, ma chèrie, I was just in the right place at the right   
time, and it's not as if I haven't gotten anything out of it in the process."  
  
His intense eyes warmed, and his dark blue gaze settled on her with affection.   
"I won a real friend, and trust me on this, petite, that's something that's   
really hard to find these days."  
  
"I know," she agreed, nodding swiftly in assurance. "I know better than most   
people, Michael."  
  
Squeezing her hand one last time, the French Immortal let her go and leaned back   
in his chair. "Now, ma chèrie, do you want to tell me what's going on inside   
that pretty head of yours?"  
  
She chuckled, and shook her head in wonder. "It's... well, it's Xander."  
  
"Oh, really?" he mocked surprise, making her giggle.  
  
"Yesterday he was..." she frowned, trying to find the words, "so depressed...   
what happened yesterday, Michael? What did you do that made him feel that way?"  
  
The French Immortal observed her with weariness, tapping on the hard surface of   
the table with his fingertips. "I'm not sure if I'm free to tell you..."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Michael!" she exclaimed, slamming the palm of her hand on   
the table to stop the annoying sound produced by his tapping fingers and   
startling him.  
  
Not far from where they were, Angel and Cris in the research area and Kyle and   
Rachel in the rest area raised their heads with surprise, looking at the couple.   
  
  
Michael just sent a hard look to all of them and they, including the soul-filled   
vampire, promptly returned to their tasks.  
  
"Stop acting as if you worked for the CIA or something like that!" Cordelia   
insisted. If she noticed the expression of surprise that flashed across the   
French Immortal's face at hearing this, she didn't say anything at all.  
  
"Bien, uh, ah, wha-what did he tell you?" he asked, trying to regain his   
composure and uncomfortably shifting in his chair.  
  
"I know that somebody died, that he had to kill some people," she explained in a   
gentler way, the two of them regaining their hushed tones. "What happened,   
Michael?"  
  
Shaking his head, the French Immortal leaned closer to her. "There's not really   
much more than that to say. Some lives, innocent lives, were at stake and we had   
to take a decision. We considered the pros and the cons, and we did what we had   
to be done."  
  
"That sounds like crap to me, Michael," she said, her hazel eyes boring into his   
dark blue ones. "I think you're trying to avoid the main question."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
Cordelia swallowed a knot that had formed in her throat, and closed her hands   
into fists to prevent them from shaking. "Was it really necessary? Could you   
have done something else to avoid those deaths?"  
  
Sighing deeply, Michael scratched his head, messing with his light brown hair.   
"What do you want me to say, chèrie? A categorical denial? A 'no we couldn't',   
period?"  
  
Cordy's eyes reflected only deep sadness when she answered. "I would love to   
hear that."  
  
He shook his head. "But you know that I can't tell you that, don't you?"  
  
The former cheerleader hid a tired sigh in her hands, avoiding his gaze. "I   
don't know how to help him, Michael. There's something eating him up from the   
inside, and I don't know what to do prevent him from falling. I'm scared, I   
don't want him to be hurt, and I don't want to lose him again."  
  
Biting his lower lip, the French Immortal observed the younger woman through   
half-closed eyes. No matter how many years he lived, no matter how much he   
thought he had seen, he always marveled at the wonder of true young love.  
  
=Was I ever that young?= he asked to himself. =Did I ever love with so much   
faith, so much strength that I would do anything, even change myself and   
question my beliefs just for the other person? Do I love Rachel that way?=  
  
He would love to have the answer to that question, but he couldn't say so.  
  
"Listen, Cordelia," he softly spoke to her, covering her hand with his   
comforting one. "I can't tell you that we're the most perfect people on the face   
of the earth, but I can assure you that there's nothing we would love more than   
to be able to do our work without harming anybody in the process. Well, I can't   
put my hand up for Spike," he added with a playful frown, managing to provoke a   
small smile from her. "It's just that..."  
  
"Some things are inevitable," she finished for him.  
  
The French Immortal nodded his agreement very slowly. Suddenly, he felt   
uncomfortable under the younger woman's scrutiny but, finally, managed to look   
back at her, shaking his head sadly.  
  
"Some things are just out of our control, Cordelia." He locked his dark blue   
eyes on her hazel ones. "Some things are just fated to happen."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
=Well,= Buffy thought to herself, observing Xander playing tonsil hockey with   
the vamped Faith out of the corner of her eye while she sidestepped a large   
vampire and violently kicked him in the gut, =now I can say, that I've truly   
seen everything.=  
  
"Xander!!" she shouted once more, trying to gain the attention of her friend.   
The Slayer jumped to a nearby tree and, leaning upon its trunk with her leg,   
pushed herself back, executing a roundhouse kick against the nearest vampire's   
chin and making his head spin around with a disgusting sound of broken   
vertebrae.  
  
Buffy let herself fall to the ground and rolled over her shoulder, stopping on   
her knees beside the fallen vampire. With a fluid motion she staked him, making   
him explode into dust and then jumped to her feet, ready to engage her next   
opponent.  
  
"I don't know what you think you're doing," she shouted to him, getting more and   
more angry at his apparent lack of attention, "but I would be very glad if you   
stopped licking the back of that bitch's neck from the front and help me!!"  
  
Even when her words carried the unmistakable tone of a deeply pissed-off Slayer,   
Xander chose to completely ignore them.  
  
Preferring instead to submerge himself into the dark cold taste of Faith's   
mouth, and the erotic sensation of her lips ravishing his with fierce passion   
and burning need, almost bruising them.  
  
Taking her into his arms, one hand placed on the small of her back to bring her   
closer to him and the other one on the back of her neck, cradling her head, he   
began to growl like a big, menacing feline without really noticing he was doing   
so.  
  
His fangs began to grow under his lips, as hers did, and their tongues entangled   
like wet snakes fighting for dominion. Xander's sharp canines cut the smooth   
surface of Faith's tongue, and her undead blood mixed with his when she did the   
same thing, its coppery and sweet flavor burning his taste-buds.  
  
The notion of the fact that vampire blood was more powerful than human, although   
less fresh and rich, and that vampires only exchanged them as a symbol of   
bonding or during a sexual game, passed through Xander's mind, almost walking on   
tiptoes.  
  
He was only able to feel his sire's blood burning his tongue and throat as it   
passed by them and got lost down his esophagus and then into his own veins,   
fueling him as nothing else had done before.  
  
Furthermore, Faith's blood also carried the unmistakable and strong scent of her   
Slayer powers that, although dormant in her actual vampire state, were still   
trapped inside her undead being.  
  
It was like being high on coke.  
  
As the young vampire's hands began to wander on her back, their mutual human   
masks disappearing as the demons inside them came to show, Xander felt himself   
growing more and more powerful. More and more strong, the same way he knew Faith   
was feeling right now.  
  
He was growing so hard, it was almost painful.  
  
It was perfect. It was right.  
  
The sire and her favorite childe, sharing their mutual life-force, becoming one.  
  
Faith let out a moan that was half-pain, half-pleasure when he yanked at her   
mane of brown hair, making her head fold back and exposing her soft neck. With a   
growl of deep arousal, Xander sank his game face into her neck, his cold lips   
running along her skin, his pointed fangs tracing and finally piercing her skin.  
  
His actions allowed drops of red blood, that under the light of the almost full   
moon seemed completely black, to run over her marble skin.   
  
Kneeling down on the fresh and cold grass, bringing her with him and placing   
himself between her spread legs into a more than intimate position, Xander   
licked the traces of blood from her skin with his tongue, hooked now on her   
taste, drowning in her essence.  
  
Faith moaned and held his head against her neck, embracing her childe into her   
willing arms.  
  
Xander's hands trailed along her sides until they reached the hem of her short   
spandex dress and slipped under it, searching and finding the sides of her   
panties and yanking at them, trying to free her from the offending garment.  
  
"Oh no," Buffy whispered, twisting the arm of a vampire until she heard the   
bones breaking and kicking another one at the same time, "that's enough."  
  
Kicking the vampire she was still grasping and making him fold over, the blonde   
Slayer jumped over him, taking hold of his back and spinning in the air until   
she landed smoothly in a small area clear of the undead, taking all of them by   
surprise.  
  
Clenching her teeth together, Buffy ran like mad to the almost mating couple,   
dodging the few vampires that dared to step into her path and feeling a   
non-small amount of anger boiling inside her stomach, fueling her short frame.  
  
She wasn't very sure of what exactly was going on, but she was sure that she   
wasn't going to allow Xander to cheat on Cordy right in front of her, and   
especially not with that slut Faith.  
  
When she reached them, and taking advantage of the fact that they didn't seem to   
even notice her presence, the blonde Slayer just kicked Xander, who was still on   
top, in his side and with all her strength.  
  
It made him abandon the brunette vampiress' lustful embrace and fly a short   
distance away, spinning around on his vertical axis until he landed again on the   
grass with a loud 'thud'.  
  
Faith just moaned in disappointment, when she felt her childe abandoning her   
arms.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Xander?!" the angry Slayer shouted at   
him, jumping over Faith and bending over his fallen form. "What do you think   
that Cordy will say when-?"  
  
Xander rose with a roar of pure rage, his game face twisted with a expression of   
pure evil that would've put Angelus to shame. Catching her by surprise, he hit   
the blonde Slayer with a backhand punch that sent her flying backwards to the   
ground.  
  
Still growling, Xander rose to his feet at the same time that a very confused   
Buffy did, still a little unstable on her feet.  
  
"Xander?" she asked, her mind fogged and confused by the pain and the whole   
situation. "What the-"  
  
Once more, the young vampire's only response was a deep animal-like roar, as he   
charged against her like an angry bull. Grabbing her by the waist like a   
football player, he lifted her short frame off the grass and pushed her back   
until the Slayer's back collided painfully against the trunk of the nearest   
tree, ripping a yelp of pain from her lips.  
  
She couldn't decide what hurt more; the hit against the rough wood, or the fact   
that it was her friend who had caused it.  
  
Almost at the edge of unconsciousness, Buffy interlaced her fingers together and   
hit him with her two combined fists on his leather-covered back with her   
remaining strength.  
  
It was like punching a concrete wall.  
  
Freeing her but still keeping her body against the tree, Xander punched her in   
the gut, making her fold up and fall to her knees as a wave of nausea engulfed   
her whole being, shaking her.  
  
If another feeling apart from rage crossed his game face when he hit her, she   
wasn't able to notice it.  
  
Rising from the grass and smoothing her wrinkled short dress, Faith let out a   
sigh of resignation and waved to a pair of her larger minions.  
  
"Catch her," she told them in a commanding voice, "and don't let her move."  
  
Nodding sharply, the two vampires quickly went to the fallen Slayer and, each   
one grabbing her by one of her arms, brought her to her feet, pinning her to the   
tree.  
  
Faith strolled to them as the rest of the surviving vampires formed a tight   
circle around them, watching in amazement and expectancy. The former vampire   
Slayer grabbed her old teammate by the loose golden strands of her hair and   
yanked back at them, making her almost-unconscious face look up at them.  
  
Buffy's fogged hazel eyes wandered from her game face to Xander's one, not able   
to decide on which one to settle on or what to make out of anything at all.   
Tilting her head to one side, Faith wiped a trace of blood from the corner of   
Buffy's mouth with her thumb and sucked it with a smack of her full lips.  
  
"Well, B," she said, almost with contentment, "it's cost me almost four years,   
but at last I have what I want."  
  
"Xander..." Buffy moaned, looking at her friend's golden eyes, "you have to   
fight it. Whatever she's doing to your mind – you have to fight it, don't let   
her win. Please, Xander, fight it..."  
  
"Save your breath, Buffy," Faith advised her, a swift smile crossing her   
vampiric features. "I'm not doing anything to him, he's just doing what his true   
nature tells him to do. He's just being himself, acting without the boundaries   
of that... thing you gave him."  
  
She shook her head, almost laughing. "He's mine, Buffy. And there's nothing you   
can do about it."  
  
The blonde Slayer felt the bitter sting of tears in her eyes and looked at him,   
his face blurred with those same tears. "Please, Xander," she insisted with a   
sob, "say that's not true! You have to fight it – think about Cordelia, think   
about that picture you showed me. Do you remember it? Do you think your   
grandmother would like to see you like this?"  
  
Faith rolled her red-gold eyes with boredom, freeing Buffy's hair. "Oh, please,   
spare me this pathetic show, Xander. Kill her."  
  
Xander grabbed the blonde Slayer by the neck, easily lifting her shorter frame   
from the ground with his preternatural strength and choking the words in her   
throat. He just locked his gold eyes with her hazel ones, and growled   
menacingly.  
  
But, just when she was going to abandon all hope and surrender to the darkness   
that the lack of oxygen offered to her brain – hoping that Xander would be   
confused enough to forget what was the only way to kill an Immortal – Buffy saw   
something in his eyes.  
  
What exactly, she wasn't able to define.  
  
A spark of humanity. The starting flame of an inner rebellion.  
  
Hope.  
  
And then she knew, that Xander wasn't going to fail her.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Inside Xander's mind, it was like being submerged in a jar of jam. He was almost   
blind, deaf and mute. He couldn't think straight, he was being swept away by a   
wave of purely primal instincts.  
  
'Obey your sire. Follow your sire. Obey her. Follow her. Obey. Follow.   
Obeyfollowobeyfollowobeyfollowobeyfollowobeyfollowobeyfollow...'  
  
She was in his mind, she was his mind, and she wasn't leaving space for anything   
else. She wanted his loyalty, she wanted his love, she wanted his heart and his   
blood. She wanted everything from him. Everything...   
  
But, she didn't want his soul. He felt it, deep inside, a part of himself that   
Faith's will hadn't still conquered; her repugnance, her loathing for that part   
of him. She didn't want his humanity.  
  
And, even if she had wanted it, the very little of Xander Harris that was still   
hanging onto sanity wouldn't, couldn't have given it to her.  
  
It just wasn't his to do so.  
  
That part of himself that really defined him, that bright light of humanity that   
was his core, had other owners.  
  
A brunette girl that was his love.  
  
A blonde girl that was his friend.   
  
A red-haired girl that was his sister.  
  
A middle-aged man that he had looked up to as a father.  
  
A haunted vampire that he had learnt to consider a friend.  
  
An Immortal that was his brother... friends, brothers, sisters... family.  
  
He was theirs, as they were his.  
  
And at that very moment, the tiny piece of Xander that was barely holding on by   
its fingertips, fighting against the maelstrom of exhilarating dark power that   
threatened to swallow him, managed to hold onto that feeling, that idea with all   
his might.   
  
And, very slowly, bring himself to safe ground.  
  
He regained his sight first and, as the dark red veil vanished from his eyes,   
the first thing he saw was Buffy's silver cross hanging from her smooth neck.  
  
Fighting against Faith's control over him, that still had a good grasp on his   
being like a web of vicious tentacles, he focused all his unstable will on that   
cross, slowly reaching out for it.  
  
The demon inside him rebelled against touching the sacred icon, shaking,   
groaning and trying to break away and, at the same time, freeing him from his   
sire's control.  
  
Xander, a low growl escaping from his throat, kept on pushing himself, bringing   
the hand that wasn't holding the blonde Slayer against the tree, closer and   
closer to her neck.  
  
Near them, Faith looked at him with a frown, feeling his inner rebellion and   
tightening her hold on him.  
  
But it was too late.  
  
Xander's hand closed around the tiny cross, its cold surface burning his skin at   
the contact and its arms digging into the flesh of the palm of his hand. The   
young vampire roared his pain, as the hissing sound and smell of burnt flesh   
rose from his hand – but still he kept his hold on it, tightening it even more   
if that was possible.  
  
As the physical pain engulfed his body, Xander felt his mind clearing up,   
breaking the ties that bound him to Faith. And a flow of images inundated his   
brain, washing over him like the cold yet invigorating wave of the ocean at   
night.  
  
Books scattered on the floor. A blonde girl looking at him in confusion. "Can I   
have you?"  
  
Trapped in a basement. Fear, anger and excitement mixed in the air. "I hate   
you!"  
  
An hospital room. His heart breaking in two. "And who am I gonna call every   
night... and talk about everything we did all day?"  
  
Watching his two best friends walking off, a wave of embarrassment sweeping him   
away. And then a nod, and a smile of complicity. "Shoot me, stuff me, mount me."  
  
A dark corridor. Once more, fear and excitement mixed in the air, this time of a   
very different kind. "I told you to eat before we left..."  
  
And more, many more. Too many even to count them.  
  
A dirty alley. Dirty clothes, dirty face, wanting Death to come and take him   
away but not having the strength to summon it himself. And then an avenging   
angel in a black trenchcoat, holding a shining rapier.  
  
A nightclub full of demons. Techno music blasting from the speakers. Letting go,   
feeling his inner demon roam free for the first time, reveling in the freedom   
and the blood.  
  
So much, so much, so much...   
  
And then silence. And darkness. And peace.  
  
Xander let go of the cross, which fell back on Buffy's heaving chest, and opened   
his eyes. For a second, an unnatural silence filled that corner of the cemetery,   
broken only by the blonde Slayer's ragged and forced breathing.  
  
The vampires looked at each other, wondering what was going on.  
  
The young vampiric Immortal looked at the palm of his own hand almost in   
amazement, examining closely the crimson-red burn mark that the Slayer's cross   
had imprinted on his pale skin.  
  
"Free her," Xander simply ordered the two vampires that were still grabbing   
Buffy's arms.  
  
The two large vampires looked at Faith questioningly, and the former Slayer   
watched her childe's back with a small frown.   
  
"What do you intend on doing, Xander?" she asked him.  
  
Without turning to her, Xander tilted his head slightly to one side, examining   
Buffy's face, which was a deep crimson red because of the lack of oxygen.  
  
"I can't rip her arms off if they're still holding them," he explained, passing   
a clawed finger slowly over the side of Buffy's face, from her temple to her   
chin. "Furthermore, killing a fly is no fun if you can't feel it struggling."  
  
Smiling widely, Faith made a sign to the two vampires, who promptly released the   
blonde Slayer into Xander's grasp. Once they had done so, the young vampire   
allowed Buffy to stand on her feet and loosened his grasp on her neck, allowing   
her to breathe freely.  
  
Buffy filled her lungs greedily, with long and deep breaths until her face   
recovered her usual color. Then, still very shaken, she raised her hazel gaze to   
Xander's almost expressionless demonic face.  
  
"If you're going to do something," she challenged him in spite of the fear she   
was feeling, "do it right now. I'm getting bored."  
  
Xander leaned close to her, to the point that her breath tickled his lips. "Are   
you ready?" he asked her in a hushed, deeply intimate tone.  
  
Like the one between a victim and her executioner.  
  
Buffy's eyes were hard and resolute. "I've never been more ready."  
  
Xander nodded only once. "Then move!" he exclaimed.  
  
Just a twist of his right wrist, and a thin but long stake emerged from the   
interior of his leather coat's sleeve. For an endless moment, the stake seemed   
to float in the middle of the air between Buffy and Xander, almost suspended   
from an invisible wire.  
  
Until, with a nimble and graceful movement, Buffy caught it and fell down,   
opening her legs spread wide like a ballerina and rolling between Xander's   
separated legs.  
  
At the same time that the blonde Slayer jumped back to her feet, taking a   
bewildered Faith by surprise, Xander grabbed the two vampires that had been   
holding Buffy by the collars of their shirts and violently smashed their heads   
together, with a sickening sound of crushed bones.  
  
Buffy attacked the former vampire Slayer with a kick to her hip that Faith was   
barely able to dodge, and followed with a series of quick kicks and punches,   
pressing her back and away from Xander and the rest of the vampires.  
  
Executing a flying roundhouse kick that hit Faith across her face and landing   
smoothly on slightly flexed legs, Buffy couldn't help but smile at her former   
teammate. "Do you know what your problem is, Faith?"  
  
Using the back of her hand, the brunette vampiress wiped a trace of blood from   
the corner of her generous mouth, sending an hostile look at the blonde Slayer.   
"Why don't you tell me?"  
  
"You're always selling the bear's skin before actually killing him, Faith."   
Buffy shook her head, in mock resignation. "And you always underestimate other   
people."  
  
Faith rolled her golden eyes. "Spare me the pain of one of your holier-than-thou   
little speeches, B. I have a better idea – let's play a game. The first one to   
die loses!"   
  
The blonde Slayer just raised one cool eyebrow. "Works for me."  
  
And with that, the two Slayers jumped forward, their legs tracing devastating   
kicks in the air of the night until they collided against each other.  
  
Xander was feeling nauseous, and this feeling wasn't due to the fact that his   
fist had just smashed a vampire's head. With so much force that his whole hand   
had disappeared into the undead being's skull, and he was trying to free it from   
the sucking grasp of his brain tissue and bloody gore.  
  
No, it was due to the images that were carved into his brain with fire.  
  
Him kissing Faith. Him wanting to fuck her senseless right then and there. Him   
hitting Buffy.  
  
For God's sake, he had been about to kill her! He had even desired above all   
else to do so, to demonstrate to his sire to what extremes he would go for   
her...   
  
For those few brief moments, he had been Faith's. He had forgotten all about   
Cordelia. He had forgotten all about himself.  
  
He had been dead.  
  
And, when the wave of nausea passed away, this idea carried new feelings, new   
sensations, none of them beautiful or nice.  
  
Anger. Rage. Hatred.  
  
A vampire came to him and Xander punched him straight on his chin, smashing his   
lower jaw and sinking it into his brain. Spinning like a whirlwind, the second   
of his sleeve-hidden stakes emerged to his left hand and he embedded it deeply   
into the vamp's chest, as he kicked another one without bothering to look at   
him.  
  
Still spinning inside the cloud of dust produced by the slain vampire, Xander   
just let himself go, submerging himself into the fight. Thinking was too   
exhausting – it led to memories, and memories led to shame and pain.  
  
No, it was better to let the demon roam free of his own control and his sire's,   
just revel in the thrill of the hunt and the bloodlust.  
  
His roar was like the one of a jungle predator, when his inner demon was   
completely unleashed. The point of his stake stabbed one of his upcoming   
blood-brothers in the throat, opening a wound that sprayed undead blood   
everywhere, on his face, his chest, his hair... Xander opened his mouth and   
licked his lips, tasting the overwhelming flavor of the vital liquid.  
  
He let go. He just totally let go.  
  
Grabbing the wounded vampire's head with his two hands Xander brutally twisted   
it, splintering the bones in his neck and ripping it from his shoulders.  
  
He felt only hate. He hated Faith. And he hated himself.  
  
Spinning once more at the same time that he kneeled down, the young vampire   
unsheathed the katana he had under his coat, just in time to avoid an attacking   
vamp's long claws.  
  
His dark sword slashed through the air – and the vampire's head was suddenly cut   
off, and it exploded into dust even before actually hitting the ground.  
  
Xander rose like a rocket, smashing another attacker's face with a head-butt   
that made him backpedal before the Akani-Kawa beheaded him.  
  
He danced, he cut, he killed. He was a deadly and roaring blur of movement, as   
the dark blade flowed like quicksilver in his right hand, severing heads,   
stabbing and slashing without end.  
  
A vampire managed to slip under his guard while he was fighting one of her   
comrades, and her razor-sharp talons slashed his face, ripping his skin and   
drawing his blood.  
  
Xander didn't even feel it. He just grabbed the vamp's arm as she ended her   
slashing attack and yanked at it, ripping it from the shoulder-joint.  
  
The vampire looked aghast at the horrible wound produced by her missing limb,   
too shocked even to scream in pain as a thick flow of blood poured from the open   
wound, spraying around. Xander mercifully ended her existence, with a powerful   
stroke that beheaded her.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Xander caught a glimpse of movement as he saw the   
two Slayers engaged in a fight that seemed taken from the pages of a   
martial-arts comic book, and the sight of his friend fighting for her life   
helped him to calm his bloodlust.  
  
It didn't matter how much vengeance he wanted. It didn't matter how much he   
wanted to stop feeling that sensation of self-loathing. Buffy needed him   
focused. She needed him to cover her back, as he had always done.  
  
The two Slayers were quite equal, almost as if one were the dark reflection of   
the other. Where Buffy was all grace and light, Faith was pure darkness and   
chaos. Buffy was dancing, Faith was swimming. One kicked, the other blocked; one   
punched, the other one dodged... Buffy was alive and immortal, Faith was dead   
and equally immortal.  
  
The brunette's claws slashed the blonde's cheek. The Immortal Slayer smashed the   
nose of the vampiric one with her fist.  
  
It was a draw.  
  
And then, as he almost absent-mindedly finished off what he thought was the last   
of Faith's minions, pure cannon fodder, the young Immortal vampire saw something   
moving behind Buffy.  
  
Go figure, one of the undead assholes had finally had the great idea of   
attacking the Slayer at her back while she was distracted.  
  
"Buffy!" he shouted, while beginning a 360 degree spin. "Duck!"   
  
The movement served to cut off the head of the last of the vampires he was   
facing and, at the same time, make the blade fly when he completed the spin and   
freed his grasp on the handle, sending it like an arrow towards the fighting   
Slayers.  
  
Both Buffy and Faith let themselves fall to the cold grass, as the sword passed   
over their heads in a blur of dark metal. It stabbed the vampire in the chest   
with so much force that the impact dragged him backwards and made him collide   
against a nearby tree, impaling him on one of the lower branches.  
  
After he turned to dust, the only thing that remained was Xander's sword nailed   
to the tree, vibrating slightly like a tuning fork.  
  
Lifting her face from the ground and, after looking at the exploding vampire in   
wonder, Buffy send a bright smile to her friend. "Nice work, Xandman," she   
thanked him, jumping to her feet.  
  
Xander managed to give her a dry and twisted smile. "I aim to please."  
  
Groaning, Faith remained on the cold ground, her arms leaned on her bent knees   
as she looked around herself and checked that all her minions were nothing more   
than dust in the cold air of the night.  
  
"What now?" she asked, allowing her human mask to appear over her true face. "Is   
this where we have the final confrontation, and you finish me off in a burst of   
righteous anger?"  
  
She blew away a lock of brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. "Please, spare   
me the theatrics."  
  
Letting his human mask cover his game face and calmly walking towards her to   
join Buffy, Xander looked down at the vamped Slayer for a silent second. Then,   
taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes to the winter night sky.  
  
The clouds were quickly coming back, covering the almost-full moon, and the   
slight breeze that had blown all night had suddenly died. He could feel the   
energy of the storm crackling in the clouds above him, waiting for the right   
moment to discharge its rage on the surface of the earth.  
  
"It's going to rain," Xander said simply. As if on cue, a low rumble shook the   
heavens above, making them tremble.  
  
With an expression of puzzlement, Buffy looked at his friend's face, which was   
matted with drying dark-red blood that stood out against his pale skin and his   
dark brown hair, equally sticky with the defeated vampires' blood. "Do you think   
this is the right moment to play weatherman, Xander?"  
  
He looked at her sideways for a second, before centering his attention again on   
the vampire almost at his feet. When he looked at Faith, his enigmatic dark eyes   
had turned so cold and hard that were like two pieces of crystal – emotionless,   
expressionless.   
  
"Run," the vampiric Immortal simply told her.  
  
"What?" both Faith and Buffy asked at the same time.  
  
Xander began to take off his coat slowly, his eyes nailed to his sire as if she   
was the only other thing on earth. "I said run, Faith. You gave me one chance   
over three years ago, and now I'm repaying the debt."  
  
He left his leather coat in Buffy's hands, who almost let it fall in her   
surprise at Xander's antics. He then unbuttoned the wrists of his black silk   
shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows.  
  
"So run, Faith. Run as fast as you can, 'cause in thirty seconds I'm gonna begin   
chasing you. And if I catch you..." he left his threat unfinished, "...well,   
let's just say it's not gonna be pretty."  
  
Allowing the smug, almost challenging smile that usually filled her lips to   
return, Faith stood up, cleaning the dirt and the grass from her dress and legs.   
"I knew you had a thing for me, Xand – you want me just for yourself, don't   
you?"  
  
She got closer to him, licking her lips in a sensual gesture. "I like this new   
you, toyboy. Very perverse and... exciting."  
  
Xander only raised one of his eyebrows. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three   
Mississippi..."  
  
"Nice to see you again, B," she told Buffy, winking an eye to her and beginning   
to stroll backwards. "Call me one of these days, OK Buffy? We'll hang out and   
talk about the old days, huh?" She turned around and began to run away, losing   
herself in the darkness and the sea of headstones of the cemetery.  
  
High above them, the first real thunderhead crashed and a lightning bolt   
illuminated the skies for a second, with beautiful blue fury.  
  
"What's in God's name is going on with you, Xander?" an angry Buffy demanded,   
making him turn around to face her, only to find herself lost in the gaze of his   
golden eyes. "Xander..."  
  
"I'm sorry about what happened before, Buffy," he told her, a sad look on his   
edged face, "but this is something that doesn't concern you. Stay here."  
  
"Are you joking?" She was feeling more and more confused, and more and more   
angry with each passing second and with each one of Xander's apparent   
unreasonable actions.  
  
"Do you really expect me to step back while you carry out this madness? Xander,"   
Buffy pleaded with him, grabbing him by his shirt, "I know you're confused right   
now, and absolutely pissed, but you can't do this. You can't hunt her down as if   
she were some kind of animal. This is not what you are!"  
  
Xander's cold expression froze her heart. "You have no idea of what I really am,   
Buffy."  
  
He gently made her loosen her grasp on his shirt and, bringing her hand to his   
mouth, kissed her fingertips with his cold vampire lips. "Tell Cordy I love her,   
just in case."  
  
Then the vampire turned around and, with an animalistic growl, began chasing his   
sire.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Watching her friend's back vanishing into the night, Buffy stifled a curse   
between her clenched teeth and rummaged in the pockets of Xander's leather coat   
until she found the young vampire's cell phone, and quickly dialed the   
warehouse's phone number.  
  
"Come on, come on," she whispered to the phone, as the calling tone beeped in   
her ear.  
  
"Joe's Crematorium," Kyle's voice came, "send us your stiff and we'll return you   
the ashes."  
  
"Kyle?" Buffy felt better when she heard the Texan's accented voice at the other   
end of the line, but it didn't help to mitigate her anxiety. "Xander... Faith...   
vampires... help ... now!!"  
  
"Whoa-whoa!" Kyle exclaimed, confused. "Calm down, Buffy, and explain to me   
what's going on!"  
  
The blonde Slayer took a long and deep breath and closed her eyes for a second,   
trying to gain some resemblance of tranquility. "We were on a patrol, when we   
found Faith and a group of vampires – we've taken care of the bloodsuckers, but   
Xander is chasing Faith, and I'm afraid he gonna do something stupid! Like   
getting himself killed!!"  
  
At the end of the phrase her voice had risen to a higher, almost hysterical tone   
that were answered by Kyle's silence. "Kyle? Are you there?"  
  
The Texan's voice came again, it was colder and calmer than what she had ever   
heard it. "Where are you?"  
  
Buffy looked around herself, rubbing her forehead. "Hmmm, Parker Street   
cemetery, near the main entrance. And Xander is chasing Faith towards..." Then,   
the realization of where she was and where her friend was going, hit the blonde   
Slayer like a ton of bricks.  
  
"Oh my God..." she whispered, starting to run, following Xander's path. "Tell   
Angel we're heading towards the stone!" she shouted to Kyle. "He knows where it   
is!"  
  
Feeling her heart thundering with dread inside her chest in tune with the storm   
above her, Buffy took Xander's sword from the tree it was nailed to and started   
to run like mad, hoping she wouldn't be too late.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Inside the Archangels' warehouse, the ring of the phone had surprised almost all   
those present in their peaceful and calm state of rest.  
  
Angel and Crystal were continuing with their research, reading in silence and   
comparing notes now and then in hushed tones. Kyle was in the near laboratory,   
in front of one of the computers settled there and sipping from a bottle of   
beer, while chatting on-line with some of his pals all over the world.  
  
Michael and Rachel were sharing a long couch, the brunette woman reading a book   
comfortably nestled in her lover's arms while he gently caressed her hair. Idly   
playing with the long strands of the dark mahogany mane, and weaving them into   
thin braids as he absent-mindedly hummed the tune of the music that came softly   
out of the speakers of the entertainment system.  
  
Loreena McKennit's haunted tones seemed to inundate the interior of the   
warehouse in a comfortable cloud of almost relaxing lethargy, and the small   
group of hunters of the supernatural thanked the opportunity to enjoy a night of   
rest in the middle of their usually-so-unstable lives.  
  
Cordelia was lying on another sofa, taking a light nap while she awaited for   
Xander and Buffy's return. Her first intention had been to stay awake, and she   
had submerged herself in the reading of a cheesy romance novel she had found in   
the stacks of the guys' library.  
  
But the tiredness she had been feeling during the last few hours and the general   
ambience of peacefulness had finally gotten to her; and, before finally falling   
asleep, she had felt the tall Texan taking the book from her already falling   
hands and covering her with a blanket.  
  
She also had felt Elvis' hairy body padding softly beside her and lying to sleep   
at her feet, as if the large dog wanted to guard her during her sleep. This   
idea, at least, had served to bring a smile to her lips as she was carried away   
into slumber.  
  
But after that, she'd had few reasons to smile.  
  
The nightmares began, almost at the same moment that her eyes were completely   
closed. It wasn't one of those almost-living dreams where you can recollect all   
the tiny and seemingly unimportant details, like the smell of somebody's hair or   
the feeling of a pair of hands on your skin.  
  
It was more like swimming in a sea of emotions, experiencing the feelings but   
not being able to clearly see the actions that provoked them. And they weren't   
nice emotions.  
  
They were cold and dark. There was fear and anger. And passion, dark,   
luxuriating, consuming and almost overwhelming. There was hate, and there was   
rage.  
  
There was lust, not produced by the desire of another's body but by the control   
of his soul and spirit. Somebody wanted to kill. Somebody wanted to die.  
  
And Cordelia felt herself in the middle of it all, almost suffocated by the   
depth of those feelings. She was shaken and swept away by a maelstrom that   
seemed almost alive, almost wanting to drown her and make her body disappear   
into a dark, bottomless ocean of oblivion.  
  
The ring of the phone woke her up, startling her. She would have yelped but her   
lungs were practically out of oxygen and she had to breathe deeply, almost   
choking in her haste to fill her chest with the precious fresh air.  
  
After that, the only thing she could do was to look around herself, her forehead   
covered by a thin layer of perspiration and her chest heaving with the effort of   
her breathing, searching for something but not being able to explain what it   
was.  
  
All that she knew, and she was sure of it, was that it had something to do with   
Xander. Something was going wrong with him. She couldn't explain how she knew   
it, or what it was. But she knew it.  
  
Sitting up on the couch and looking over its back, she saw Kyle in the wall-less   
laboratory, picking up the phone and, holding the phone between his head and his   
shoulder, answering with an absent-minded expression, his whole attention   
centered on the monitor of his computer.  
  
Then she saw him suddenly jerking up, stiffening and turning around to look at   
her and she understood that she was right. Something was definitely wrong.  
  
She turned around, wanting to cry and she found herself looking straight at   
Michael and Rachel's inquisitive faces. They didn't need to share any words and,   
as she practically jumped from the couch, they did the same.  
  
Cordelia searched frantically for her coat and, after finding it neatly hanging   
on the same hook where she had left it on the rest area's wardrobe, quickly put   
it on. She found her purse too, and checked that her gun was inside it.  
  
Then, she turned around to find that the rest of the group, already dressed and   
equipped, was walking to the elevator.  
  
"What's going on with Xander?" she asked, fearful to know the answer.  
  
Kyle shared a look of confusion with Michael, before looking back at her. "How   
did you know-?"  
  
"It doesn't matter!" she shouted, a little more harshly than what she intended,   
but beginning to feel the grasp of fear in her heart. "I just know."  
  
"It's Faith," the tall Texan simply said, punching the elevator's call button.   
"They stumbled upon her, and Xander is chasing her."  
  
Cordelia felt the air choke out of her lungs, when the information hit her   
almost with a physical impact. Angel, who was automatically beside her, had to   
grab her to prevent the young brunette from falling to the floor.  
  
"Are you alright?" the dark-haired vampire asked her, with a note of concern in   
his voice.  
  
The young woman shook her head, both in denial and to clear up her   
suddenly-fogged brain. Faith, in town, facing Xander.  
  
It was just too much.  
  
"No, I'm not," she managed to tell her friend almost with a whisper, that barely   
registered in Angel's sharp vampire ears.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked Kyle, one of his arms still around Cordelia's   
shoulders, supporting her unstable frame.  
  
Seeing that the elevator had finally arrived at their level, the tall Texan   
opened the wooden door and the compact group of friends got into it. "Buffy said   
that they were going to someplace called 'the rock', or something like that, I   
didn't have time to get it completely."  
  
At the vampire's worried expression, he managed a placating nod. "She seemed all   
right, but she was very nervous."  
  
"'The rock', 'the rock'," Cordelia mumbled to herself while they stepped out of   
the elevator and quickly walked to the vehicles. Then her hazel eyes lit up with   
the spark of an idea. "Could it be 'the stone'?"  
  
"Yes!" Kyle exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "That's what she said!"  
  
Cordelia and Angel shared a short, yet meaningful look. "Oh, shit," the vampire   
whispered.  
  
"I gather that's not a good piece of news," Michael said with a grimace, opening   
the trunk of his black Cadillac to take out his emergency weapons.  
  
"No," Angel practically whispered with a hard expression. "It's not good at   
all."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The trees and the headstones were nothing more than a confused blur of movement   
as they passed by in his peripheral vision, disappearing behind him as his   
undead legs carried him faster and farther than what would be possible for any   
human.  
  
Xander felt the temptation to take off and launch himself into the dark air of   
the night and chase her as a bird of prey, but he remembered what he had told   
her and decided to stick to his first idea.  
  
She had given him a second opportunity, even when she hadn't intended to do so.   
In her haste to hurt Buffy and the rest of the Scooby Gang nearly four years   
ago, Faith had left his body for them to find instead of hiding it until his   
transformation was complete, and he rose from the realms of the dead.  
  
Unbeknownst to her, that had given him the chance to run away.  
  
Run away from her, from his friends, from his hometown and all that he had held   
dear in his life...   
  
It had always seemed to him like the most painful thing he'd done in his entire   
existence – but now, seeing the effect of the sire-childe bond between them,   
Xander knew that he'd been wrong.  
  
What would have happened if Faith had established that link in those very first,   
confused hours after his comeback?  
  
How different would his existence have turned out to be?  
  
How different a place would the world be now?  
  
How many people would have paid the price?  
  
Above him, thunder rumbled, lighting crashed and rain began to fall down in a   
thick curtain, sweeping the surface of the earth with the force of a tropical   
storm. The earth turned to mud at his feet and his boots sunk into the watery   
ground, with each one of the long steps he took in his mad run.  
  
As the rain drenched his shirt, plastering it to his torso and back with a cold   
and wet embrace, the air carried a thousand smells and sounds to his heightened   
vampire senses. The wet grass and mud below his booted feet, the rumbling of the   
storm in the skies above and, above them all, superimposed onto the falling,   
cleansing rain, his sire's scent.  
  
Faith's rough and husky perfume, deeply attractive and sexual, inflamed his   
nostrils, burning his animated lungs as he followed her trail like a bloodhound,   
restlessly chasing her.  
  
What he would do when he got his claws on her, he hadn't decided yet.  
  
All Xander knew was that he was going to kill her, he was going to take an   
unholy bath in her blood. He was going to have his revenge on her.  
  
The intensity of his hate towards her surprised him, because he knew that, for   
once, he couldn't put the blame on his inner demon. It was the man inside   
himself, the human being, who wanted payback, who wanted blood, who wanted her   
to die.  
  
It was he who desired Faith's death, above everything else in the world.  
  
It was Xander Harris who was going to become a killer that night.  
  
His golden eyes bored into the darkness of the cemetery and through the thick   
curtain of the rain, catching his first glimpse of Faith's silhouette as he   
closed the distance that separated them.  
  
One, two, three fast steps more and he was practically above her; smoothly   
jumping on a headstone with nothing more than an elongated step, he launched   
himself with a roar onto the former vampire Slayer.  
  
Faith turned around at the last second, alerted by Xander's animalistic roar;   
only to see with a deep expression of surprise in her face, how her childe fell   
on her like the wrath of God itself, tackling her and pushing her body onto the   
wet, swamp-like grass.  
  
Losing his grasp on her when they collided painfully against the ground, Xander   
rolled on his shoulder, drenching his already wet clothes in mud and water. He   
quickly jumped to his feet, in time to see Faith doing the same on her   
stiletto-clad ones.  
  
=How can she walk on those heels?= an inner voice asked inside his head.  
  
As if on cue, the brunette vampiress kicked her shoes off, her golden eyes fixed   
on him and blazing with fury. "Don't you know that it isn't nice to hit your own   
mother?" she asked.  
  
"You're not my mother, you bitch!" he stated furiously, beginning to feel once   
again the tentacles of their bond worming through his will and fighting them off   
with all the strength of his soul.  
  
Shaking her head, making her dark brown and wet locks swim around her game face,   
Faith snorted, looking at him in distaste. "You're such a disappointment,   
Xander."  
  
"That's the first nice thing I've heard you say tonight," he spat, already   
beginning to move towards her.  
  
Faith received him with a right high kick to his head that Xander blocked with   
his left elbow, sending his right arm straight like an arrow and hitting her   
with the flat palm of his hand in the middle of her chest.  
  
For the former Slayer, it was as if she had been hit by a sledgehammer; her body   
received the impact of Xander's powerful blow and flew backwards until she   
landed on a headstone, making it explode under the force of the collision.  
  
Nevertheless, she managed to roll on her back between the remnants of the   
tombstone. And, although dazed and surprised by her childe's strength, she stood   
up in time to block Xander's next hit.   
  
An arched blow that would have ended with her throat being ripped open by the   
young vampire's claws, if she hadn't captured his wrist in her hand.  
  
"I see that you've been taking lessons," she grunted, turning to smash her free   
elbow in Xander's face.  
  
The young vampire's nose exploded with a sound of breaking cartilage and the   
blood began to run free immediately over his upper lip and down the corners of   
his mouth, but not a grunt of pain came from him as he just freed his arm from   
his sire's grip.  
  
In a second, both of them were face to face, struggling with each other's   
bodies, trying to break free and gain enough space to connect a new blow.  
  
Being surprisingly quicker than her childe, Faith managed to slash his chest   
with her razor-sharp claws, ripping his black silk shirt and the smooth, pale   
skin under it, drawing his blood.  
  
Backpedaling in pain, Xander ripped away the torn remains of his shirt, being   
now completely bare-chested, dressed only in his black jeans and boots and the   
tattoo that, in the shape of a Chinese green dragon, covered his left arm from   
the wrist to his shoulder-blade.  
  
"I'm going to kill you," he menacingly growled at her, throwing away the torn   
clothes.  
  
Faith couldn't help but to raise a smug eyebrow. "A few minutes ago, that wasn't   
exactly what you would've loved to do to me... wouldn't you say, toyboy?"  
  
She was quick, he had to give her that, her Slayer abilities and experience   
still clearly noticeable in her movements and strikes.  
  
Xander tried to calm down, to think straight. He was way stronger than her, he   
knew that, and pushed to its limits, the combination of his vampire and Immortal   
capacities had no rival.  
  
But it seemed that his whole being was dominated by the rage; that all he was   
able to think of was killing her, but not on how do it. If he didn't focus and   
manage to make the red veil of anger that was covering his eyes vanish, she   
would have the upper hand.  
  
And furthermore, there was that sensation again, that feeling, uninvited,   
unwelcome, but oddly familiar.  
  
That she was his sire. He was hers. That was how things had to be.  
  
With a new roar, Xander pushed her back and kicked her legs off the ground with   
a roundhouse sweep, that made her fall to the ground on her back.  
  
Jumping on her, Xander kept the brunette vampiress pinned to the ground pressing   
one knee on her flat belly, one hand tightly closed around her neck and the   
other reaching out to the nearest tree, searching, finding and finally yanking   
at a low branch.  
  
Breaking it and raising the makeshift stake, Xander got ready to plunge it down,   
to finish his sire's unnatural existence.  
  
A new lightning bolt stabbed the night sky, burning the darkness above them with   
blue electric fire; and then thunder rumbled, like the explosion of some god's   
rage, shaking the earth.  
  
His longish dark hair, completely drenched by the rain, was plastered to his   
scalp and forehead, almost covering his eyes. The rain, falling on them with the   
strength and fury that only a divine cataclysm could have, slid down over the   
smooth marble white surface of his bare and broad back and along his vamped   
features.  
  
It mixed with the blood-red tears coming down his golden eyes, turning them a   
light pink flow that rolled down his edged cheeks and neck.  
  
His chest rose and fell with heaviness as his breathing became ragged first, and   
then too painful to even be worth doing it. His heart, like the erratic roll of   
a weak drum, staggered inside him – doubtful as to whether keep on beating, or   
stop completely.  
  
The coldness of the storm was like a freezing embrace that, added to the inner   
turmoil, made him tremble like a leaf about to fall. A sob escaped his mouth and   
he had to bite his lips close with his pointed fangs, until it was too painful   
even for him not to start crying like a child.  
  
His right hand, still holding the broken branch high above his head wavered   
doubtfully, refusing to move down with the final, devastating strike. He just   
couldn't do it.  
  
He couldn't kill his sire.  
  
When Faith finally took his left wrist into her slender hand, loosening Xander's   
grasp on her neck and pushing his hand away from her, he didn't make any effort   
to stop her.  
  
Placing a hand on his chest, the brunette vampiress pushed him gently back and   
Xander broke away from her, clumsily falling on his ass with a wet thud from the   
mud underneath them.  
  
Taking her attention away from him completely, the former Slayer rose to her   
feet, examining her dirtied clothes and skin.  
  
"For God's sake, Xander," she cursed between clenched teeth, allowing the human   
mask to appear once more over her vampiric features and removing her drenched   
hair away from her once-more dark eyes, squeezing her brown mane behind her head   
to drain it off, "look at how you've left me."  
  
With a snort of disdain, Faith kicked him brutally on the side of his head,   
making it violently spin around and him fall, as large as he was, on the   
swamp-like grass.  
  
"You know?" she continued, calmly pacing around him as the young vampire slowly   
tried to get to his feet, scrambling to his hands and knees. "I'm beginning to   
wonder what it is I see in you, why I still bother in trying to make you see   
things my way."  
  
Again, with all the strength of her undead body and all the rage stored inside   
her, Faith kicked her fallen childe, this time in his unprotected midriff.   
Xander, feeling his ribs splintering like thin straws of hay under the force of   
the blow, grunted in pain, coughing up blood.  
  
He still wanted to kill her. He knew he could kill her.  
  
But it was as if something inside was stopping him, from going the whole nine   
yards.  
  
=You can defy her. You can despise her. You can fight her. You can hate her.=  
  
=But you're still hers.=  
  
=Forever.=  
  
"I keep on telling myself," Faith continued her monologue, looking at the stormy   
night sky as if it could answer her, "he'll come to his senses, he'll accept the   
inevitable, he..." she kicked him again, hard, "...will..." she stomped on his   
hand, smashing his bones, breaking his fingers, "...love you!"  
  
With a final roar, she kicked him once more in the face and his head jerked   
violently at an odd angle as a thick spurt of dark-red blood flowed from his   
mouth, splattering the wet, muddy grass of the cemetery.  
  
"But nooo!! Righteous Xander still believes himself too good for poor, crazy   
Faith!" Madder and more furious with each passing second, the brunette vampiress   
grabbed his fallen head by the dark locks of hair at the top of his scalp,   
forcefully yanking at them until he was looking at her face.  
  
"What is it you need, Xander? Do I have to sire you again to make you understand   
that you're mine? Do I have to kill all your so-called friends? Do I have to   
grab Cordelia, and rip out her entrails in front of your eyes?"  
  
Feeling his broken bones starting to painfully heal by themselves, rearranging   
and popping into their sockets, Xander cut off her tirade by slamming his elbow   
into her face with a roar of pure rage, making her backpedal away from him.  
  
With a fluid, smooth movement, the young vampire jumped to his feet and charged   
against her like a enraged bull, his nostrils flaring with fury and his eyes   
turned into two golden blazes of light.  
  
=I may not be able to kill her. But I'm going to make her pay for this!=  
  
Well, if there was one thing he had learnt to do in the last few years, it was   
to adapt himself to almost every situation.  
  
Moving as only he was able to do, his fist connected with Faith's stomach with   
so much force that the blow made her double over and raised her frame some   
inches off the ground.  
  
His jeans-clad knee rose, hitting her lowered face squarely on her chin, making   
her stand up straight. A flying roundhouse kick, and she was soaring backwards   
away from him.  
  
Moving faster than the eye could follow, Xander landed and grasped her by the   
low and ample neckline of her spandex dress, his fingers sinking down between   
her cold breasts and preventing her from going further away.  
  
"Oh please, don't go away so soon, mommy," he spat with acid-dripping sarcasm.  
  
With a savage yank, Xander brought her back to him, hitting her face with a   
powerful punch that fractured her cheekbone.  
  
Still grasping her by the fabric of her dress, practically holding her on her   
feet, Xander brought her again up against her fist. "I'm not going to repeat it   
to you again, Faith," he told her, almost spitting the words into her face.  
  
"Don't you..." another punch, making the blood flow, "... dare touch her..."   
grabbing her with his two hands, he brutally kneed her in the gut, "... ever!!"  
  
Xander was about to take her head between her hands to twist her neck, when she   
suddenly seemed to come back to life in his arms, kneeing him in his crotch with   
all her remaining strength.  
  
It was enough to make him lose his grip on her and practically fall to the   
ground, as he moved his hands to hold his pained area with a reflex gesture,   
moaning in deep male pain.  
  
"Bitch," he grunted, falling to his knees.  
  
"Oh please," she protested, leaning on a headstone for support while cleaning   
her face of blood and dirt with the back of her hand, "try to think of something   
more original to say, will you?"  
  
He just looked at her sideways and moaned once more, carefully protecting his   
most tender area.  
  
Buffy's lungs were on fire and she had to stop to take a short rest, leaning her   
hands on slightly flexed knees to support her body and taking long and deep   
breaths.  
  
Rolling slightly up the sleeves of Xander's coat, which she had put on to   
protect herself from the falling rain but seemed huge on her shorter frame, the   
blonde Slayer took a long and careful look around herself, trying to place   
herself and locate her friend at the same time.  
  
But the rain falling down on her was so thick that her range of visibility was   
practically reduced to just a few yards. Stifling an unladylike curse, Buffy   
quickly climbed up a near statue, thinking that from a higher vantage point she   
would have a clearer impression of her location.  
  
Nimbly straddling the winged shoulders of the marble angel, the blonde Slayer   
wiped her forehead dry and covered her eyes, looking around.  
  
"Come on," she whispered to herself, "where are you, Xander?"  
  
A new lightning bolt, quickly followed by an earth-shattering explosion of   
thunder, lit the sky in blue flames and illuminating her surroundings for a   
short second. Enough to allow her to place herself, and to locate the young   
vampire.  
  
Unfortunately for both of them, neither of those two facts were really good   
news.  
  
Because she was still way too far away from her friend and his sire.  
  
And because they were in the last place she wanted them to be.  
  
Scrambling down the statue, Buffy started to run to them as fast as her legs   
allowed her. She knew that she had barely any time left.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
As Michael's black Cadillac sped along the road, following the path cleared on   
the wet asphalt by Kyle's cherry-red Pathfinder, the tension inside the huge   
coupe could be cut with a knife.  
  
The French Immortal was behind the steering wheel, tapping its curved surface   
with his fingers while nervously munching his lower lip. Beside him, in the   
passenger's seat, Angel's dark gaze was lost in the night outside, with his arms   
crossed over his broad chest.  
  
If there was one thing that Michael found unnerving about the souled vampire, it   
was his ease in hiding his feelings. He knew Angel loved Buffy, that he was   
worried for her, but nobody would be able to say so from looking at his stoic   
face.  
  
Taking his attention away from the road for just a second, the French Immortal   
looked at Rachel, who was sat in the back seat, through the rear-view mirror and   
their gazes locked for a second.  
  
She was also worried, he could tell just by the way her brown eyes returned his   
look, but still he was able to find comfort in just her mere presence.  
  
Still, his fear for the safety of his pupil and friend was like a ball of ice   
inside his belly.  
  
"He'll be alright," she said aloud from the back seat, reaching out to   
comfortingly squeeze his shoulder. "You've taught him very well."  
  
Sighing, Michael shook his head, his dark blue eyes returning once more to the   
wet concrete passing beneath the wheels of his car and the off-road vehicle in   
front of them.  
  
"I don't know, Rachel," he said, looking then at the dark-haired vampire beside   
him out of the corner of his eye, "we weren't expecting this."  
  
Angel looked at the Immortal, with his eyebrows slightly raised. "We weren't   
either," he said simply, his face turning around to look out of the car's   
interior once more. "None of us has had any news about Faith's whereabouts   
since... well, since Xander's death. At first, we thought that they had gone   
away together..."  
  
The vampire turned again, to look at him through half-closed eyes. "You know   
what happened, don't you?"  
  
Michael shrugged slightly as he took a curve, following Kyle's tail-lights.   
"Xander's not exactly open to talk about that part of his past, he... it's still   
a bleeding wound, je suppose." The brown-haired Immortal frowned, shifting   
uncomfortably in his seat.  
  
Leaning forward between the two front seats, Rachel looked at Angel. "Faith was   
a Slayer, right?" At the vampire's nod, she continued, "She was vamped, got   
obsessed with Xander and ended up turning him, that's all we know. Care to fill   
in the gaps?"  
  
Sighing in his best brooding style, the tall vampire looked at the brunette   
Immortal and then at her lover, carefully examining them with inquisitive eyes,   
before finally turning back to the darkness outside.  
  
He didn't want to think back, he didn't want to remember that part of the   
painful past; but he guessed that, as the friends they seemed to be, they had   
the right to know.  
  
"Faith always was different," Angel began to tell them without looking directly   
at either of the two Immortals, "even by Slayer standards. Orphan, runaway,   
street-wise, she already had an unstable life to be saddled with the weight of   
such a big responsibility."  
  
"Some people grow stronger under the pressure of a challenge," Rachel observed,   
sending a quick glance to Michael through the rear-view mirror before centering   
her attention back in Angel's face.  
  
The dark-haired vampire shrugged slightly. "And others just crumble under it.   
Faith liked to put on a hard-as-nails façade, but you didn't need to look too   
deep inside her to find a broken spirit."  
  
He continued, "When she came to Sunnydale the first time, she was like a   
frightened bunny trying to hide herself under the skin of a wolf. Her Watcher   
had been killed, she was being chased by a powerful vampire..."  
  
Angel's dark eyes took on a lost and introverted expression as he was speaking,   
more and more to himself with each passing moment. "I often wonder what would've   
happened if she had trusted in Buffy and the rest from the very beginning, if   
their relationship hadn't begun with a lie..."  
  
He then looked at Rachel, as if he was really looking at her for the very first   
time. "A lie is all you need to destroy a relationship," the vampire whispered,   
"no matter how strong you think it is."  
  
Rachel shivered, even though the interior of the car was far from being cold.  
  
"Ahem," Michael coughed politely, bringing both hers and Angel's attention to   
the present. "not that I don't like a good brood, but could you finish the   
story, please?"  
  
The souled vampire blinked his eyes repeatedly, as if he was coming out of a   
trance. "Sorry, it's just force of habit. Hmmm, where was I?"  
  
"You were on the 'poor Faith, alone and scared' part," Michael mumbled   
sarcastically.  
  
"You seem to have pity for her," Rachel observed softly.  
  
"I do, in a way," the vampire nodded. "She didn't ask to be turned, and what   
happened after that wasn't entirely her fault. Even when she was alive, she   
wasn't very..." Angel made a face, "well, very centered."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"She was a crazy bitch," Cordelia stated, leaning between the front seats of   
Kyle's Pathfinder. "Always going around gung-ho, dressing like a slut, risking   
our lives needlessly and laying her hands on my Xander."  
  
The tall Texan and Crystal, who were on those same seats, shared a quick and   
meaningful glance.   
  
"Jealous much?" Kyle asked with an eyebrow slightly risen.  
  
"Who? Me?" Cordelia squeaked, deeply offended. "Of that... skanky ho? Ha!"  
  
She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away,   
practically fuming. "So what, she appears outta nowhere, shaking her ass like a   
cheap whore and saying, 'Oooh look at me, I'm a Slayer, I'm the Chosen One'?"  
  
Cordy continued, "And then suddenly all the guys are going like hormone-oozing,   
salivating at the sight of her. Well, all of them except Oz who, being around   
Willow, wouldn't notice a troop of nude cheerleaders even if they began jumping   
around right in front of him..."  
  
"I would notice that," Kyle murmured, his eyes suddenly very far away.  
  
Behind all of them, in the cargo area, Elvis whined, leaning his furry head on   
the back of Cordelia's seat and covering his brown eyes with a paw as if in   
pain.  
  
"...which, by the way, reminds me that I've never known such a-"  
  
"Cordelia!" Crystal cut her off, managing a tight smile. "You are babbling, my   
dear."  
  
The brunette opened and closed her mouth for a few moments, before letting out a   
sigh and passing a hand over her tired face. "I'm sorry," she excused herself,   
"I'm nervous, and worried, and a lot of other things I don't want to think about   
right now."  
  
She let out a dry, almost sarcastic laugh. "It's funny if you think about it, I   
didn't used to be this way."  
  
"You were telling us about Xander and Faith," the red-haired witch told her,   
trying to distract her so the brunette young woman didn't sink into a depressed   
mood, wanting to take her mind away from the trouble in which her boyfriend   
could be. "What happened? How did she get obsessed with Xander?"  
  
Cordy's hazel eyes looked at Crystal for a second before smiling sadly, shaking   
her head. "They did have a lot in common, I gotta admit that," she said, her   
voice stressed, hurt as the girl recalled what was probably the most painful   
part of her past.  
  
"She had no family, she was alone and in need of a helping hand. Xander... well,   
he didn't have much of a family, either. His father was a drunk, his mother was   
missing in action half the time... God," she said, wiping the tears that were   
coming to her eyes with her hand, not minding at all if her make-up was ruined   
or not. "Sometimes I wonder how I could've been so stupid, so blind..."  
  
In an odd gesture from Crystal, the redhead reached out for her, taking her hand   
in hers and squeezing it supportively. Cordelia managed to give her a grateful   
smile.  
  
"You know how Xander is," the brunette continued with a smile that this time was   
warm as she talked about him, the boy he had once been, the man that he was now.   
"There was a damsel in distress, and a Slayer, furthermore. How wasn't he going   
to go to her rescue, try to be her white knight?"  
  
She shook her head, looking at the darkness outside. "I always used to say that   
one day, it would be the death of him."  
  
Cordelia sobbed and her face grimaced, almost painfully twisted by her latest   
effort to control the tears. "Oh God, how I wish I was wrong..."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Mr. Trick was the Master vampire of Sunnydale back then," Angel kept on   
explaining to Michael and Rachel, as they shortened the distance to their   
destination.  
  
"He was a modern vampire, very fond of technology and such things. And he'd made   
an alliance with the Mayor, only that we didn't know it back then, of course.   
Have we got much longer to go?"  
  
"Ten minutes," Michael calculated, looking at the needle on his speedometer.  
  
"Well, uh, Trick had this plan to kidnap and sacrifice all the town's babies to   
a demon that Buffy and the guys stopped. Don't ask me the exact details, because   
I wasn't at my strongest then," he explained with an inner shiver. "But Buffy   
got very pissed off at the whole thing, and decided to bring him down no matter   
what."  
  
"Comprehensively, knowing Buffy," Rachel gave the vampire an affectionate smile.   
"She's a little bombshell."  
  
"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Angel smiled back at her. "The thing is that they   
argued about how to do it – Faith wanted to do a frontal attack, Giles said that   
they had to be more subtle than that, and Buffy was divided between her faith in   
her Watcher and her friendship with Faith. And her own desire to end it all, as   
quick and directly as possible."  
  
"Let me guess," Michael said, "in the end, Rupert got his own way."  
  
"Yeah, when he gets into Watcher mode he can be a very tough guy," Angel   
commented with a soft nod. "The problem was that it didn't sit too well with   
Faith – she felt betrayed by Buffy and the rest of the gang, who had supported   
Giles' opinion. While they searched for a better way to bring Trick down, Faith   
went to Willy's bar, hit him until she got Trick's location and then went out   
after him."  
  
"Alone?" Rachel asked, incredulous. "Was she suicidal or what?"  
  
The dark-haired vampire shrugged. "Maybe she was, maybe she wanted to   
demonstrate something to the others or even herself, I don't know. All I know is   
that she failed, the word that Trick had gotten her was on the streets like   
wildfire. I alerted Buffy and we went to her rescue, but..."  
  
With a sigh, Michael finished the sentence for him. "It was too late."  
  
"She was still alive when we got there, she..." Angel shook his head sadly. "She   
died in Xander's arms. I should have understood then that it wasn't the end of   
it, when I saw her eyes."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, not used to explaining his feelings, Angel   
tried to put them into words. "Xander was crying while he held her in her last   
moments, he was... he is," he corrected himself, "a decent man who has very deep   
feelings. For me, it was obvious that he was feeling sorrow and pain for Faith's   
death. All of us were feeling like that – Buffy was practically torn apart and   
Giles looked twenty years older, but for Faith it was something new. As sad as   
it sounds, I don't think anybody had ever cried for her before."  
  
Seeing the direction Angel was going, Rachel sighed with sadness. "She   
misunderstood Xander's feelings and actions."  
  
Angel nodded. "In her last living moments, she believed that he loved her as   
much, I guess, as she thought she loved him. She died thinking that Xander was   
in love with her."  
  
"And when she came back..." Michael let the idea trail off.  
  
"That idea, that feeling, was implanted in her like dogma," Angel finished.  
  
The interior of the Cadillac remained in a deep silence for a few moments, until   
the French Immortal broke it with a soft whistle. "Allons, it's not strange that   
she went for him after that. The kid didn't have a chance."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"I will never forget the night she came back," Cordelia said with a haunted   
voice, a little recovered from her outburst. "We had everything ready to do the   
soul restoration ritual, in the cemetery when she rose from her grave. And while   
she fought Buffy, we tried to perform it."  
  
"But it didn't work," the red-haired witch observed, "for the curse to work, the   
vampire Faith became would have had to be responsible for a great evil."  
  
Cordelia nodded slowly. "We didn't know that back then. When the damn   
paperweight didn't begin to shine, we thought that it was because we'd done   
something wrong."  
  
With his eyes fixed on the road, Kyle frowned with confusion. "Paperweight?"  
  
"The Orb of Thesulah," Crystal explained to him matter-of-factly, "it's used to   
summon-"  
  
"I know what an Orb of Thesulah is used for, Cris," he cut her off, a little too   
petulantly. "My grandfather had one back on the reservation. Although he used it   
as a fancy cue ball..." the Texan paused with a shrug, "he won a lot of money   
with it playing pool."  
  
Ignoring him, Crystal turned back to the brunette in the back seat. "Please   
continue Cordelia, what happened then?"  
  
"There's not much more to tell; Faith escaped and we weren't able to find her,   
but after a few days the town morgue started to get majorly filled up with   
corpses."  
  
Cordelia shook her head. "She had, like, a voracious appetite. But, I gotta say   
that she also found Trick – and, well, the rumor mill had it that there was very   
little skin remaining on his body, when she finally staked him," she said with a   
grimace of loathing.  
  
"Didn't you try to do the ritual again?"  
  
"Yeah, one day she began to get personal and passed from killing for food, to   
her doing it just for the fun of it. She killed Willow's favorite teacher, one   
of the guys in Oz's band, all the people who worked at my favorite clothing   
store..." she sobbed, getting slightly emotional for a short moment.  
  
"When she attacked Buffy's mom, we pulled out all the stops and went after her.   
As they fought again, we tried the ritual and this time it seemed to work. The   
orb did the cool glowy thing, Willow did that scary possessed act and Buffy told   
us that before running away, Faith's eyes had glowed like Angel's had, so we   
thought it had worked."  
  
Letting her head lean onto the back of her seat for a moment, Cordelia's gaze   
was lost on the roof of the car. "But then she took Xander and... she...   
everything changed. Everything..."  
  
Feeling her already-swollen and reddened eyes getting wet again, Cordelia   
covered her face with her hands. Not for the first time, she wondered if there   
would be a time where she didn't need to cry anymore.  
  
"We're already there," Kyle alerted them, pointing through the rain-swept   
windshield to the cemetery's main gate. Instead of slowing the vehicle's pace,   
the tall Texan stepped down the gas pedal, accelerating to the Pathfinder's top   
speed.   
  
"Hold on ladies, because we're coming in without knocking!" he shouted.  
  
When the front bumpers of the Pathfinder crashed across the closed metallic   
fence of the gate, it flew away, ripped from its hinges as if a transatlantic   
train had hit it.  
  
The cherry-red off-road car then rushed onto the cemetery's walkway, closely   
followed by Michael's black Cadillac.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When the lightning illuminated the haunted scenario around them, Xander began to   
rise from the ground and faced Faith, who was sitting on a headstone nor far   
away from him.  
  
They were both a complete mess, covered in mud and dried blood, barely wearing   
torn clothes and with sticky and disheveled hair.  
  
"You know what the funniest part of all this is?" the former Slayer asked him, a   
sarcastic smile crossing her lips.  
  
Xander didn't answer and just held the stare of her cold dark eyes, resolved not   
to be bent again.  
  
"In the end, it doesn't matter how much you fight against it, Xander," she   
explained, jumping off the headstone. "This is inevitable. This thing, this us   
is just meant to be!"  
  
Finally closing his eyes, Xander shook his head tiredly. "You just don't get it,   
do you?" Clenching his fists tightly closed, he came nearer to her, towering   
over the former Slayer thanks to his superior height. "There's no us, you stupid   
bitch!! There never has been, and there will never be!!"  
  
She practically leaned onto him, placing her cold hands on his bare chest. "If   
that's what you want to believe..."  
  
With a grunt, Xander took her wrists in a harsh grasp, removing her hands from   
his skin, trying to ignore the flaming sensation of her touch. "Don't you touch   
me," he growled at her.  
  
"Xander," she insisted, closing again the space between them when he   
backpedaled, "You have to understand it-"  
  
"I said," he shouted, bringing his fist back, "don't touch me!!"  
  
His knuckles connected with her face once more, making her fall to the ground   
flat on her back.  
  
"Why can't you just let me be, Faith?" the vampiric Immortal shouted raggedly.   
"Why is it I can't have any semblance of peace, ever?!?" He began to pace   
nervously, back and forth. "Why can't you just let me live my life!?!"  
  
With a roar, Faith stood up, backhand punching him. "Live your life?" she asked   
with an angry voice, pressing him back with punches and kicks so fast that he   
almost wasn't able to block them all.  
  
"You're not alive, Xander! You think I haven't noticed it? Your heart beats,   
your chest rises and falls with your breathing – so what?"  
  
Before he was able to recover from her attack, Faith kicked his feet off the   
ground with a roundhouse sweep, and Xander had to lean on a nearby headstone not   
to fall.  
  
"You're a demon, Xander. You're dead!! And all that remains of you, any   
existence you want to call life, every tiny bit of feeling, every goddamn second   
of every goddamn minute – you owe it to me!!" she screamed.  
  
The dark-haired vampire was barely able to dodge her next blow, full of rage and   
fury, and the next of Faith's kicks hit him squarely in the gut, making him fold   
over.  
  
Kicking him in the back of his head, Faith managed to throw his already unstable   
frame to the ground, making him fall face-first on the swamp-like earth, the   
impact of his semi-naked body against it causing to splatter mud and dirty water   
everywhere.   
  
"Go to Hell," he cursed her between clenched teeth.  
  
Pressing his struggling body against the wet ground with her knee and his face   
into a pool of water and mud with one of her hands, Faith smiled smugly. "Don't   
you believe me, Xander? Well, I'll have to show it to you then."   
  
Raising the hand that wasn't holding her childe against the ground, the former   
Slayer closed her fingers into a fist. "You know what they say, toyboy, you   
gotta be cruel to be kind."  
  
Faith's fist fell brutally on his spine, about four inches above the small of   
his back and with the force of a pile-driver; it crushed and broke his lower   
vertebrae, severing his spinal cord and sinking his whole being into a deep sea   
of blinding pain.  
  
Nevertheless, Xander's scream of pain was drowned in the pool of mud into which   
his face was submerged and, when the white-hot pain passed away, all that   
remained was a cold numbness below the line of his waist and, suddenly, he   
couldn't feel his legs anymore.  
  
Yanking at his dark hair, Faith dragged him away over the swamp-like grass,   
making him moan in pain. "Do you want evidence of it, Xander? Do you wanna see   
it with your own eyes? Well, don't worry sweetheart, it's right here."  
  
Faith dragged him to a nearest headstone and, painfully yanking at his hair,   
lifted his head from the ground. " Here it is, Xander, it's what remains of the   
old you!"  
  
Faith slammed his face violently against the cold and hard surface of the   
headstone, crushing his face against it again and again until his handsome   
features were bloody and almost unrecognizable.  
  
Then, bringing his head back once more with a painful yank, she planted a long,   
hard kiss on his torn lips, greedily and lustfully sucking the blood that flowed   
from them.   
  
When she broke away from him a lightning bolt stabbed the dark skies, and she   
made him face the carved stone.  
  
"This is all that remains of you, Xander," Faith repeated coldly, his blood   
matting her lips.  
  
And, through his dazed eyes, feeling his strength slipping away, Xander looked,   
saw and felt his soul screaming with all the strength and the pain that his   
tired and broken lungs couldn't voice.  
  
On the stone – carved onto the marble and covered with his own blood, which was   
being quickly washed away by the falling rain – he saw his own name.  
  
There was no description, like 'Beloved Son' or 'In Loving Memory' – just the   
cold name and dates.  
  
Alexander Lavelle Harris  
1981-1999  
  
=Dead. Dead and buried.=  
  
He was dead. Dead. Deaddeaddeaddeadeadeadeadeadead...   
  
"Nooo!!" a voice screamed as a dark and small bulk flew over the headstone,   
tackling Faith down and away from Xander's prone figure.  
  
"Get the hell away from him!!" Buffy shouted, tracing out an arc in the air with   
Xander's katana when the two Slayers finally scrambled to their feet.  
  
Faith did a backflip, dodging Buffy's slash and growling at the blonde Slayer   
between her fangs as she landed on her bare feet.  
  
Tilting her head to one side and holding the long sword into both hands, Buffy   
shook her head in a serious and menacing warning. "Don't even think it."  
  
Snorting through her game face, Faith looked past her at the fallen form of her   
childe for a moment, before looking back at her former teammate. "Now he knows   
how my blood tastes, Buffy. And I know how his tastes. That's a bond that no one   
can destroy, not you, and not that brunette bitch of his. He... is... mine."  
  
She chuckled almost maniacally, licked her childe's blood from her lips and sent   
an air kiss to the blonde Slayer, winking a golden eye to her. "See ya later, B   
– and give my regards to the rest of the gang!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Seeing Faith vanish into the darkness of the cemetery, running away from her,   
Buffy let the dark blade of the sword fall down until it was finally pointing to   
the muddy ground, letting the air come out of her lungs in a slow and deep sigh.  
  
For a second, the blonde Slayer rested her forehead on the handle of the katana,   
closing her eyes. She didn't know how to feel.  
  
Happy because they were still alive?  
  
Frightened because they had almost been killed?  
  
Broken because Faith had made them bleed, both literally and figuratively   
speaking?  
  
She just didn't know.  
  
Turning around to her fallen friend, Buffy let the sword fall to the wet ground   
beside her, noticing almost at the edge of her awareness that the force of the   
storm was weakening – the rain falling with less and less fury, and the wind   
blowing slower with each passing second.  
  
She didn't, she couldn't care less about it.  
  
In the darkness of the cemetery, the only thing that got her whole attention,   
the only thing that was capturing her heart, mind and soul, tying them into a   
freezing grip, making them sink down, was the broken body of her old friend.   
  
He crawled over the muddy grass with only the use of his arms, his useless legs   
dead and spread in odd angles.  
  
Moaning and grunting in pain and sorrow through his torn lips, Xander extended   
one of his arms, reaching out to the headstone, slowly tracing the nooks of the   
carved name on the marble surface.  
  
Then, like a wounded animal, he rolled into a fetal posture, whining a   
high-pitched and broken moan that pierced through the night, stabbing Buffy's   
heart. It was the sound of a soul dying.  
  
It was a scream of pain, that could only come from a man that felt his hopes   
dying and fading away.  
  
Feeling her own tears coming to her hazel eyes, mixing with the rain coating her   
skin, Buffy fell to her knees beside the wounded young vampire and reached out   
for him, trying to take his shaken body into a comforting embrace.  
  
"Don't touch me!!" he suddenly exclaimed in rage, roaring at her and violently   
pushing her away.  
  
Startled, the blonde Slayer fell on her behind, her puzzled gaze locked onto her   
friend's golden and furious one. "Xander, what-?"  
  
The voice died in her throat as she looked at his face, and recognized the   
tell-tale signs on his already-healing vampiric features. The lack of humanity   
in his almost- glowing golden eyes, the fangs bared at her and the low, menacing   
growl that escaped from his throat.  
  
The hunger.  
  
Gulping down a gasp of alarm, Buffy slowly crawled back on her elbows and away   
from him. As she slowly stood to her feet, she couldn't help but make a face   
when she heard the sickening sound produced by the bones in his back healing,   
thanks to his Immortal capacities; rearranging themselves, mending together and   
popping into their sockets.  
  
It had to be awfully painful for him, but his face didn't seem to register any   
of that. When she was at a prudent distance away from him, the menacing   
expression just fell away from his face, replaced by a heart-wrenching, almost   
infinite sadness.  
  
Then, seemingly losing all interest in her, the young vampire turned once more   
to the marble stone that indicated his last resting place. And, nestling like an   
agonized animal waiting for his death, remained rolled in a fetal posture, his   
body only animated by the soft shudders of the too-human sobs that escaped from   
his lips.  
  
Just a few steps away from him, Buffy could only wait for the help to come,   
feeling the bitter sting of tears coming to her own eyes.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Faith was far from happy. In fact, as she ran away with fast and long steps and   
felt her bare feet sinking into the muddy ground of the cemetery, with the wet   
locks of her brown hair swinging wildly around her head, she was practically   
fuming.  
  
Even though it could be said that she was the honorary winner of the fight, the   
truth was that her plans for it could not exactly be considered successful.  
  
All her minions, all the effort during the last few weeks – hiding herself,   
trying to pass unnoticed, feeding only from the scum of the docks and the   
homeless – all of it had now been for nothing.  
  
Xander was still resisting her.  
  
=Why?= She couldn't understand. =Why can't he see it? Why he is being so damn   
stubborn?=  
  
It had to be that filthy soul. And God-almighty Buffy. And holier-than-thou   
Willow. And the bitch, Cordelia.  
  
As always, Faith abstained from pronouncing their names aloud, knowing that they   
would leave a foul taste in her mouth. And right now, she felt too good with the   
sweet ambrosia of her childe's blood sparkling on her tongue and lips.  
  
The first time she had tasted it, so long ago, the vamped Slayer had known for   
sure what she had suspected all along. Xander was special, unique and so was his   
blood.  
  
Electrical, alive, full of energy and life. It burned her taste-buds, inflaming   
all her senses, fueling her – it made her feel like nothing else had done,   
before or since.  
  
And now she was hooked on him. She needed him, almost with desperation.   
  
And she would make him need her, even if she had to kill the rest of the   
goddamned town to do so.  
  
Reaching the end of the graveyard, Faith jumped smoothly over the short wall   
that defined the cemetery's borders, starting a more relaxed run, feeling the   
roughness of the wet asphalt on the soles of her bare feet as she leisurely   
jogged along the middle of the street.  
  
As usual, the streets of Sunnydale were almost deserted at night – the citizens   
taking shelter in their homes from the living, or more precisely un-living,   
nightmares that roamed the town's dark alleys and empty avenues.  
  
Still, even though she had come out of the fight with her skin intact, Faith was   
feeling a curious mix of disappointment and wonder. She had marveled at feeling   
Xander's dark potential, not expecting such great power as she had felt coming   
out of his tall frame, hitting her almost in physical waves.  
  
But she'd felt disappointed as well, because she had found him still bound to   
that bunch of losers and self-righteous saints.  
  
And the former Slayer was also furious, because deep inside him, Faith had felt   
her mark.  
  
She would kill that bitch slowly and painfully, and enjoy every minute of her   
agony.  
  
So engrossed was Faith on planning what she would do, she never noticed when the   
car came out of a dark alley barely moments after she had passed it, and began   
to slowly follow her with its front headlamps switched off.  
  
Her thoughts tumbled along, =I'm gonna rip out her lungs. I'll eat her heart   
raw! And then suck the marrow from her bones. I will...=  
  
The roar of an accelerating engine brought her out of her reverie, and the   
former Slayer turned around to the source of said sound. Only to be completely   
blinded when the headlamps of the huge car switched on without warning, bathing   
her in an explosion of almost pure white-yellow light.  
  
Instinctively, Faith raised her hand to cover her eyes, when she understood what   
was about to happen; and when she began to move away from the car's trajectory,   
it was too late.  
  
The car launched itself towards her, its nose hitting her with the whole force   
of its massive body. Too surprised even to let out a grunt of pain, Faith felt   
herself rolling over the hood until her body collided with the windshield, which   
imploded into a spider-like web of cracks when she impacted against it.  
  
Then she was flying again, crossing the air in the opposite direction for a   
short length of time until she hit the ground and rolled once again, this time   
over the rough asphalt.  
  
As she slightly leaned on her elbow, trying to stand up, the car skidded over   
the road with a screech of protesting tires and brakes, its speed going down too   
slowly for Faith's comfort.  
  
In fact, when it finally stopped, there was barely an inch of air separating her   
forehead from the car's front bumper.  
  
=Stupid son of a bitch.= Whoever was driving that car, he was going to turn into   
her next meal.  
  
Leaning on the bumper and taking a good look at the car for the first time,   
noticing that it was a luxury car and huge black Lincoln, Faith let her game   
face come to show. Both the driver's and the passenger's doors opened, and two   
men came out of the car.  
  
That was even better for her. Two guys meant twice the fun, and twice the joy.  
  
The driver was an incredibly tall and handsome African-American man, obviously   
older that his companion – a shorter young man with sandy hair, and the most   
impressive black eyes she had ever seen in a man.  
  
Letting a lewd smile come to her lips, Faith jumped nimbly onto the hood of the   
car, ready to throw herself over the bigger and probably more dangerous driver.   
She was thinking that if she turned them, they could be even more fun than-  
  
But something was definitely wrong with that mental picture.  
  
She understood it the moment her feet abandoned the car, and her jump towards   
the black man began. He didn't looked the least bit surprised, and he didn't   
even try to move aside.  
  
He wasn't scared, and that couldn't mean anything good for her.  
  
As she reached the apogee of her jump, she noticed some movement out of the   
corner of her eye as the younger man silently, and as quick as a snake, drew out   
a strange-looking gun and aimed at her, firing it.  
  
Faith just felt a deep sting as the black man smoothly took himself out of her   
path and she landed painfully on her shoulder, suddenly feeling all her body   
turning numb and weak. Rolling until she was on her back, she tried to sit up,   
only to find that her muscles suddenly didn't want to obey to her.  
  
And, much to her amazement, she discovered the white feather of a dart sticking   
out of her chest.  
  
"Oh, shit," was the only thing she was able to articulate, before the world   
turned dark and her head fell hard against the asphalt.  
  
Walking around the nose of the Lincoln, Damon Frost slowly holstered the   
tranquilizer gun under his cashmere coat, hiding it from view. Looking down at   
the prone form of the fallen vampire, he raised one of his sandy eyebrows   
slightly.  
  
"She's a babe," he observed with a lewd smile. "I'm beginning to see the old   
man's point of view."  
  
Mr. Smith just looked at him sideways, before centering his attention back on   
Faith's body. Without articulating a word, he reached down and took her, his   
huge hands practically surrounding her thin waist, and effortlessly lifted her,   
throwing the former Slayer's limp form over his shoulder.  
  
"Open the trunk," he commanded the younger man.  
  
With a sigh of boredom, Damon did as he was told and the enigmatic black man   
carefully placed her into the spacious trunk of the car. For a second, the two   
men just looked down at her in silence.  
  
"Do you have any idea of what he's going to do with her?" Damon asked his   
companion, without looking at him.  
  
Smith's features changed for barely a moment, when the corners of his mouth   
enlarged into a grimace of disinterest.   
  
"It's not my business," he said. "But whatever it is, we'll soon find out."  
  
Then, seemingly losing all interest in both the captured vampire and his   
companion, Smith just closed the trunk.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
She heard the upcoming cars first and, when she turned her head around, alerted   
by the roar of their engines, Buffy saw the light of their headlamps boring into   
the darkness as their speeded along the near walkway, closing the distance to   
them.  
  
Standing up, the blonde Slayer waved energetically at them, trying to get their   
attention.  
  
On cue, the red Pathfinder suddenly turned around to her, getting off the main   
walkway and onto the wet grass, closely followed by the black Cadillac, both   
vehicles carefully eluding the vertical headstones.  
  
Finally, with their tires throwing mud and water all around, the two cars braked   
at a short distance from her, their doors opening wildly even before their   
frames had stopped completely.  
  
As their occupants got out of the vehicles in a hurry, Buffy noticed that the   
Archangels barely took a look at her or Xander's prone form before scattering   
around, forming an open circle around them, their eyes wandering around in   
search of any possible threat.  
  
Both Michael and Rachel carried what seemed like hi-tech crossbows, while Kyle   
expertly bore a giant semiautomatic shotgun; and, as usual, Cris seem unarmed   
while Elvis trotted around them, sniffing and growling in a menacing low tone.  
  
Nevertheless, her attention was quickly drawn away when she saw Angel on the   
trail of a bewildered Cordelia, barely keeping up with the brunette's pace as   
they ran towards them.  
  
The former cheerleader was on the verge of tears, but the expression on her face   
seemed resolute and hard.  
  
"Xander!" she cried, seeing her lover's trembling form on the ground.  
  
Steeping into her path, Buffy tried to stop her. "Cordy, no!" she exclaimed,   
raising her hands to grab Cordelia's forearms. "You don't know what-"  
  
The look that her friend sent her made Buffy's blood freeze, inside her veins.   
She had never seen so much determination in Cordelia's eyes before, or anybody   
else's for that matter.  
  
"Don't you ever dare to step between us, Buffy," Cordy practically hissed at   
her.  
  
Astonished at her friend's reaction, the blonde Slayer looked back at her with   
her mouth wide open as Angel gently took her by her shoulder and gently made her   
step aside, allowing Cordelia to walk to where Xander was lying.  
  
"What are you doing?" Buffy finally asked her boyfriend in an almost indignant   
low tone, fighting with the words. "Xander... the hunger... he might hurt her!"  
  
Shaking his head in denial, Angel indicated towards them with his chin. "Look at   
them, Buffy. That could never happen."  
  
Still completely bewildered, the blonde Slayer turned into the tall vampire's   
arms to face her two friends. Cordelia walked slowly to her lover's prone and   
trembling form and, very slowly, sank to her knees, seemingly not worried at all   
about the effect that the muddy ground would have on her miniskirt.  
  
Still silent and as carefully as if she was trying to capture a butterfly alive   
without damaging it, she took out her coat and gently used it to cover Xander's   
semi-nude form.  
  
At the first touch, the young vampire flinched in surprise and fear; but when he   
turned around to face her, his already healed face was completely human, and his   
expression of rage and hunger had been replaced by infinite pain and sadness.  
  
"Oh my God," Buffy whispered, leaning back on Angel's broad chest for support   
and feeling her heart breaking in two at the image of her friend. Tears came to   
her eyes and she didn't make any effort to stop them, allowing the salty drops   
to freely run in silence down her dirty cheeks.  
  
Quickly wrapping her lover's body into her coat, Cordelia helped Xander to lean   
his head on her lap.  
  
Gently caressing his wet hair, she cleaned his face of the dried blood and mud   
with her fingers, rocking him like a baby while softly speaking to him in   
hushed, comforting tones. "I'm here, baby... I love you, Xander... everything's   
gonna be alright, sweetheart..."  
  
The young vampire just looked at her with his deep brown eyes and cried silent   
tears of blood, allowing himself to be protected by his lover's embrace.  
  
"Come on," Angel whispered at Buffy's ear, "let's give them some privacy."  
  
Nodding and wiping her tears with the back of her hand, smearing the mix of mud   
and the little make-up she still wore over her cheeks, Buffy allowed the souled   
vampire to gently take her away from the couple on the ground and to the refuge   
of the parked vehicles.  
  
Here she found Michael and Rachel, who were also looking at Xander and Cordelia   
over the hood of the red Pathfinder. And now that she noticed it, neither Kyle   
nor Crystal seemed to be around.  
  
"The area seems secure," Michael said, leaning the butt of his crossbow on his   
waist. "How is he?"  
  
Buffy shrugged helplessly. "Truth is... I have no idea. This has all been just   
so... weird," she shook her head. "I think I need a little time to digest it   
all."  
  
The French Immortal just raised one eyebrow, looking beyond them at the young   
vampire and the young woman that was his love, wondering how it was that good   
people always seemed to be the ones that had to suffer the most.  
  
His pondering, and other worries for that matter, had to be put aside when he   
noticed the reflection of Crystal's white robe out of the corner of his eye and   
he saw both the red-haired witch and Kyle coming out of the darkness, a   
low-headed Elvis trotting between them.  
  
"Elvis caught a fresh vampire trace," the tall Texan explained even before any   
question was made, while he carefully engaged the safety of his Benelli M3 SWAT   
shotgun and hung it over his shoulder.  
  
"But it ended on the street. We found this." Reaching into his brown bomber   
leather jacket, Kyle took out a carefully wrapped up nylon handkerchief and   
showed them what he had protected inside it. Some glass fragments.  
  
"What's that?" Angel asked in the same secretive tone they were using, not   
wanting to disturb neither Xander or Cordelia.  
  
"Fragments of a car's broken headlamp," Michael told him, carefully examining   
them in the light of their own cars' headlamps.   
  
"Exactly," Kyle confirmed. "My take on it: Faith stopped a car, killed whoever   
was driving and used it to get away."  
  
With a frown, Michael took one of the larger fragments and examined it closely.   
It was tinted in red, and he didn't have to take a great leap of faith to assume   
that it was probably blood.  
  
"Will you be able to make something out of this in the laboratory?" Rachel   
asked, taking another of the fragments.  
  
The tall Texan shrugged. "Working hard for the rest of the night... make, model   
and year. Probably the police will have found it, and the body, by then."  
  
"Do it anyway," Michael practically ordered him. Even when his voice had sounded   
a little harsh, Kyle just nodded.  
  
"Now what?" Rachel asked her mentor and lover, her chocolate-brown eyes   
reflecting her worry too.  
  
The French Immortal just sighed, passing a tired hand over his handsome   
features. "There's not much more we can do here," he said. "Kyle, why don't you   
and Cris take Buffy and Angel home? Rachel and myself will stay here until   
they're... ready to go."  
  
"I'd like to stay," Buffy said even when, looking at her face, it was obvious   
that her tiredness was finally getting to her. "They're my friends."  
  
"I know, Buffy," Michael told her warmly, offering her an understanding smile.   
"But sadly, there is very little we can do for them right now. Go home and get   
some rest, ma petite, God knows we'll probably need to be at our peak during the   
next few days."  
  
Nodding silently, Buffy hugged him short but strongly and took a last look at   
their friends, before allowing Angel to practically carry her to Kyle's off-road   
vehicle.  
  
When she hid her hands inside the deep pockets of her coat, her fingers stumbled   
upon something hard and cold. Xander's keys.  
  
"What about Xander's bike?" she asked, taking out the keys.  
  
Helping her into the car's back seat, Angel took the keys. "I'll take it to the   
warehouse, I gather we're going there," he said, looking at the tall Texan.  
  
"Wouldn't you prefer me to take you to your apartment or the girls' one?" Kyle   
asked.  
  
"No," Buffy said with conviction, "I wanna be there when they come back."  
  
Nodding, Kyle turned back to Angel. "I'll lead the way."  
  
Kissing Buffy warmly on her temple one last time, the souled vampire rushed to   
the place where Xander's bike was parked. Meanwhile, Elvis jumped into the back   
seat of the Pathfinder and, whining meekly, laid his furry head on the blonde   
Slayer's lap.  
  
Buffy caressed his scalp and let her fingers lose themselves in the animal's   
soft hair, finding an odd comfort in the warmth of his large body beside hers.  
  
As the cherry-red vehicle drove away, Michael and Rachel got into the black   
Cadillac and, without sharing words, sat down to wait for their friends. They   
held hands in silence, their fingers entangled together, finding comfort in each   
other's presence.  
  
Looking at Xander and Cordelia, the young woman still holding her lover in her   
arms while the young vampire cried quietly in her protective embrace, the two   
Immortals could only pray for the night to end – and the next day to be warmer   
and easier, on their already overloaded spirits.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued in DR2 - The Cross of Changes, Book II: Games people play 


End file.
